


Synapses

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Hitting the road during S1, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Sam Has Powers, Sam/Jess is only in the beginning, Telepathy, With A Twist, it's literally all I write, one of these days I'll write an AU where she lives, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam never wanted to be the freak. This time, he doesn't have a choice in the matter. AU in which Sam doesn't have visions, he reads minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. presynaptic

“Such a beautiful day.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied absently, taking in the sun-lit campus. “Really is.”

“What’s that, Sam?”

Sam turned to Jess. “I just agreed with you.”

Her lips quirked up in a wry smile. “Agreed with what?”

Sam hesitated. “Didn’t you just say what a nice day it is?”

Jess laughed. “No, you must be hearing things. It is really nice though, isn’t it?”

Sam echoed her laugh uneasily. He could’ve sworn . . .

_“Sam’s looking so tired, I am not going to let him stay up late tonight, no sir. Make him some warm cookies, maybe some tea, that’ll put him right out.”_

Sam came to a halt, their entwined fingers forcing Jess to stop as well. His girlfriend’s lips hadn’t moved. He hadn’t . . . it had been her, though, it didn’t make any—

“Sam, you okay?” _“He’s looking rather pale, I’ll make him tea as soon as we get back—“_

There was a buzzing in Sam’s ears, and it was not going away. Incipient whispers like a million needles in his mind, and Sam felt something wet slide down his upper lip.

“Jess,” he croaked, and then he heard—

_“I really need to finish this project, or—”_

_“Dude, she is so into me, I’ll ask her out, just gotta get up the courage, c’mon—“_

_“Ugh, such an awesome day, why am I at school, let’s get to the beach—“_

_“Why hasn’t he texted back?”_

_“Darn it, I’m late—“_

“Sam, what’s wrong, Sam, Sam . . .” _“Oh my gosh what is going on should I get help, what—“_

It was overwhelming and Sam couldn’t, he could hear it all and it wasn’t . . .”

* * *

The first thing Sam was aware of was a beeping noise. A consistent, annoying beeping noise that was not his alarm clock, and therefore he could not shut it off.

“Babe, can you hear me?”

Sam groaned and turned slightly at the sound of Jess’s voice, the pounding in his head dulling down a notch. “Jess?” he croaked.

“Yeah, I’m right here. Listen, we’re in the hospital, okay? Do you need me to call any of your family? It doesn’t seem like this is too serious, the doctors are saying migraine, but . . .”

“No, I’m fine,” Sam said. He hadn’t quite made it to the point of opening his eyes, but he didn’t want to test it. “What happened?” his voice slurred slightly, and his somewhat slow brain prompted him to realize he was on drugs.

“You just passed out, no reason at all.” Sam could appreciate how Jess was trying to keep her panic out of her voice. “Scared me half to death, Winchester.”

Sam dragged up one corner of his mouth. “I like to keep you on edge.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sam felt soft lips on his own and he smiled fully then, carefully edging his eyes open to take in his beautiful girlfriend.

“Jess,” he breathed as she drew back.

“Mmm?”

“Love you.”

What Sam loved best about Jess’s smiles were the way her eyes lit up. “Love you too. Shall we get you out of this place?”

“Please.”

Apparently the flimsy diagnoses were that Sam had—by working too hard and not taking care of himself—triggered a major migraine and giving the reason for his collapse. Sam kept his own theories to himself, carefully not trying to root through his own brain for the source of the problem. He had research of his own to do.

* * *

“Sam, you need to go to bed, what if you get another migraine?”

Sam snapped his laptop shut and stood with a groan. “You’re right, sorry,” he said meaninglessly. Just barely, he reached out and touched Jess’s mind, hearing a mix of her thoughts, some planning ahead, some reflecting on older memories, and the majority focusing on Sam.

Just as quickly he wrenched his mind back under his control. No, he would not be a psychic freak. He was normal. He had gotten out, and whatever freak thing this was, it would go away. Sam wouldn’t use it at all.

Jess startled him by throwing an arm around his neck and kissing his cheek, and he was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions from her or from him, he couldn’t tell.

“You hanging in there?” he murmured.

“Course I am, you know me.” Jess kissed him on the temple and Sam felt a twinge of guilt—definitely his own emotion this time—at the continued guilt from keeping his own many many secrets.

“What do you want to do next weekend?” he asked as she moved away to get ready for bed.

Jess replied, “there’s a Halloween party, remember?”

“I’m not dressing up,” Sam warned.

“You’re such a party pooper.”

“That’s why you love me.”

Jess grinned at him affectionately. “C’mon, doofus, bed.”

* * *

Dutifully, Sam categorized the aspects about his new ability as if he himself was a hunt. Not like he would ever, ever tell anyone, but it was still important to know his limitations. Sam found that he automatically could sense people’s moods and hear their outermost thoughts. Thankfully there was a strange muted quality and a kind of flavor to the thoughts so that he could tell the difference between that and words spoken aloud.

Sam didn’t try to delve deeper. He had unconsciously shoved up shields when he had been overwhelmed, and there was no reason to delve further. Chances were, he would only end up seeing and hearing the worst of people—Sam wasn’t enough of an optimist to risk that.

It would work. It had to. Sam was smart enough to keep it all under wraps, ignoring the nasty thoughts that occasionally flitted through the mind of those around him and focusing on his work and on Jess.

It was perfect.

* * *

Sam woke with a start at the feel of another mind in his house. Thief, he instantly assumed, silently unlocking his bedside drawer and withdrawing his gun. No need to shoot first, so he tucked it into the back of his pants and kept his fists raised.

Briefly, he thought that he could probably subdue the intruder with his mind, but, well, the repercussions of that . . .

Sam caught the tail end of a thought—“wonder why Sammy’s got so much junk around, maybe he’s got a roommate”—and was caught completely off guard. It couldn’t . . .

He was jumped, slammed onto his back, and Sam stared up at his brother.

“Dean?”

His brother grinned down at him, the relief coming across palpably, quick words like Sammy, safe, not hurt, taller.

And, as Sam should’ve expected, a derision at how easy it was to take him down. Sam allowed the flare of defensiveness to kick up in his gut and flipped them before helping Dean up.

He got another rush of thoughts and emotions from Dean and then Sam suddenly realized what he was doing. He was becoming a freak in front of his brother, stealing without his knowledge—

Sam clamped down on his shields, hard. And it was blessedly quiet. He hadn’t known he could do that.

Going with Dean on his hunt seemed like a natural conclusion, though Sam couldn’t help the uneasy feeling of leaving Jess behind.

But it would be fine.

* * *

Sam had forgotten so much. Being with Dean on a case was like a rush of memories that he had been suppressing, and every time he looked over at Dean he felt a flare of guilt and regret at never having called, at having shut Dean out so thoroughly. Sure, the last time he had seen him was when their dad had essentially disowned him, but that was no reason to shut Dean out.

“So, little brother, what’s changed?”

Sam stretched back against the Impala’s familiar seats. “Little? We both know I’m the taller one now,” he teased.

“Yeah, and you wanna pull over and see if that height does anything to help you?” Dean arched an eyebrow at Sam and Sam grinned helplessly. His shields lowered a little, he was able to feel Dean’s contentment and a brush of thoughts containing memories of the past when they used to taunt each other.

“I’ve missed you,” Sam blurted, suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to make sure Dean knew that.

Dean’s grin faded a little. “Things may have changed, Sammy, but do we need to have mushy girly moments? No, I don’t think so.”

Properly chastened, Sam glowered at the car floor and muttered, “it’s Sam.”

“You’ll always be Sammy to me.”

“Shaddap.”

* * *

The job went relatively well, and Sam should’ve realized that it was only lulling him into a false sense of security. The instant Dean parked the Impala outside the apartment, Sam went completely still as he heard the cries of pain and fear from Jess in his mind.

“Sam!” the shout came from behind him, but Sam ignored it as he raced up the stairs. Jess would be fine, he would save her, because that’s what they did. Killed the bad things, saved the girls.

Sam burst into the apartment and found everything fine.

“Jess?” he called loudly.

No sound, but he could hear her screaming for him from the other room in his mind. Sam shoved his way into the room desperately, looking around frantically until his eyes were drawn to the ceiling.

The blood on her abdomen . . . Jess’s mouth was in the shape of his name, and her eyes—Sam leapt up on the bed, reaching up to pull her down when the flames burst from around her and crawled along the ceiling with a speed far from normal.

“Jess!” Sam felt the heat along his forearms and hands as he scrambled to get a hold of Jess. He could save her, he could.

“Sam!” A yank around Sam’s middle pulled Sam away, and he cried out in desperation as his brother dragged him out of the apartment. It couldn’t end like this.

But it did.


	2. input

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Dean glanced at Sam, who sat in the passenger seat like he didn’t know if he belonged there anymore.

“Are you sure you wanna go straight to the coordinates?” he checked. “It hasn’t been that long.”

Sam’s eyes turned as if he was tempted to look behind them to where they left Palo Alto and Jess’s grave.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” he said softly, and Dean winced, regretting his earlier bitter thoughts towards the place, even towards Jess. Sam had been happy there, finally in a place he had fit in, and Dean couldn’t help but think that he was dragging his brother back into the life that he hated.

Sam seemed to pull himself out of his own headspace and tilted his face towards Dean. “So, your over-abundant love for ridiculous music—that was just over the weekend to annoy me on purpose?”

Dean hesitated in the space between admitting that he didn’t want to bother Sam and that he liked having the option of Sam talking to him. Okay, well, the latter he would never admit, he needed a better excuse.

“Dean, I won’t mind, I promise. I know you hate silence.”

His brother knew him too well. Dean grimaced and shoved in a cassette tape. “Well, except for star watching,” he said, trying to cover up the awkward pause. “Dude, you talk during that time or play any funky music and I’ll have to disown you.” And, of course, he had just stumbled into another minefield, what with the way Sam and their Dad had . . .

“Dean, c’mon, I haven’t forgotten everything,” Sam responded, pinning Dean with a discerning look. “When have I ever tried to talk during that time? You’re the one who burps.”

“Am not,” Dean automatically defended.

“Are too.” Sam sank back into the seat, smirking and looking far less like the grieving man that Dean had seen for the past week. Progress. That was good.

Sam twitched and looked out the front windshield, and in that millisecond, Dean had lost him.

“We’ll find Dad,” Dean said softly. “We’ll figure this out.” He’d do anything to get Sam to really smile, but maybe he never would again.

“Yeah.” Sam’s hands were clenched into fists on his knees. “We will.”

* * *

Dean was good at letting things slide. Well, sort of.

He had expected Sam to be different. Hadn’t seen the guy in years, add on the death of his girlfriend and it was expected.

Still, there was something that Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The case with Bloody Mary, of course, blew his suspicions into the area of well-founded and possibly very very accurate.

“So, still gonna be mum about this?” Dean asked, apropos of nothing as they headed for St. Louis.

“The case?” Sam finally put down his phone, which he had been staring at for a few minutes.

“No.” Dean didn’t really feel like explaining, and angrily glared at the semi that had pulled out in front of him for no reason.

Sam seemed to gather what he was talking about from his face, because he sighed. “Dean, I’m sorry, this is . . . it’s personal.”

“Yeah, well, we’re . . . personal.” Dean winced at the awkward phrasing. “I’m your brother,” he finally said gruffly. “If you can’t trust me, then who can you trust?”

Sam fidgeted, a sure sign when he was guilty or just agitated. Dean couldn’t tell which.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “I will, Dean, just . . . give me time?”

Dean pressed the pedal down as the semi moved back into the right lane where it belonged. “S’long as you don’t take too long,” he told Sam grudgingly.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam said, the grateful puppy-dog look on his face more appropriate for a toddler with a lollipop than anything.

Dean, his attention on the road, was startled by a strange gasping sound from Sam, and whipped his head around in case his idiot brother decided to have a heart attack right in the car.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Sam had his hand over his mouth, and from the set of his face, Dean could almost swear his brother was trying to stop a smile.

“You are such a freak,” Dean said under his breath, and when he looked at Sam again, he had gone utterly still. “Sam?”

Sam twitched. “Let’s get to St. Louis.”

* * *

Dean would take back every time he had ever wished Sam to stay in the hunt with him. The sight of Sam being choked to death by himself—no, not himself, the shifter—would definitely stay with him for a while.

He glanced over anxiously at the passenger seat, where Sam was holding himself stiffly, pain written into every line of his lean body.

“Hang in there, Sammy, we get far enough away from St. Louis and we can doctor you up, okay?” Dean promised recklessly. He didn’t want to go to jail, but with the way Sam was looking . . . he hadn’t even complained about the nickname.

“Just keep driving, Dean.” Sam’s eyes looked a little manic, now that Dean noticed it, with his quick glances in-between paying attention to the road.

“Sam, you aren’t bleeding out, no internal bleeding or anything serious, right? You know the signs, and don’t do some martyr business just because the cops have our number, you die and—“

“No, Dean, I’m fine, keep driving.”

Dean didn’t even deign to snort at that blatant mistruth, but continued to guide the Impala through the growing traffic. How was it morning already? Rush hour was about to catch up with them.

“Can you go any faster?”

Dean looked in astonishment at Sam, who was always berating him for going as fast as he did. “I go any faster and we’re asking for attention from the police,” he said slowly. “Why?”

Sam twitched violently, one hand going up to his head. “Need to get out of the city,” he ground out. Dean could actually hear his teeth scraping together.

“Sammy, we’ll be fine. They think I’m dead, remember?”

Sam brought his other hand up to his head and Dean started really worrying. His little brother was holding his head as if it was about to fall apart.

“Maybe we should stop, Sam, you’re not looking so great,” Dean suggested.

Sam’s eyes snapped onto him, and one blood vessel in his eye had popped due to the terrific shiner developing. “No. Have to get away, too many people. So many. Have to . . . have to focus. Focus,” Sam hissed, gaze going past Dean to stare out at the city. And from what Dean could tell, he wasn’t admiring the Arch.

“Sam, what’s going on?” Dean asked sharply.

“I’ll explain, I promise, I promise, anything you want, just get me away please there’s so many, it’s too much, I can’t—“ Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head and he flopped back so that his head was lolling across the bench seat.

“Sam!” Terrified, Dean drove one-handed while simultaneously using his right to search out Sam’s pulse. It was rabbiting under his finger tips and Dean bit his lip. Try and find an exit for a hospital? Or listen to Sam’s plea to get out of the city? He had thought at first it was leftover fear from the run-in with the authorities, but Sam had sounded pretty strung out, not just from that.

What was he supposed to do?

* * *

Dean watched through gritty eyes as Sam slowly came into awareness again. Under normal circumstances, he would have been gratified at the way Sam relaxed as soon as he caught sight of Dean—no lingering traces of the shifter’s psychological scars on Sam, at least—but as it was, he was trying to avoid freaking out or blowing up.

“Dean,” Sam croaked. Silently, Dean handed him water.

“We’re in the hunt together, Sam,” he said abruptly. “I didn’t take you to a hospital because I trusted you. Give me a reason for me to keep that faith in you.”

Sam’s eyes turned liquid, full of the emotions that Sam always carried there.

“Dean, it’s . . .” he swallowed convulsively. “I . . .”

“I’m waiting.”

“I know, it’s—“ Sam raked a hand through his hair and peeked up at Dean. “I can read people’s minds.”

Out of all the answers Sam might’ve given him, that had been the last Dean had expected. He blinked.

“Come again?”

“It started about a week before—“ Sam swallowed again, “—Jess. I started hearing everyone, collapsed and scared her half to . . .” Sam suddenly laughed bitterly, and Dean hadn’t missed the terrible irony. “I don’t know why. I researched it, but there isn’t much conclusive research on psychics or telepaths or whatever I am.”

Dean was still trying to process, and fell back on his old standby of humor. “What number am I thinking of?”

“You haven’t thought of one yet, you’re too busy trying to stall,” Sam said dully. “I’m not making this up.”

Dean breathed. Deep ones. “So, in the Impala . . .”

“I was weak, after the fight with the shapeshifter. My shields were too weak, and once I started losing my grip on them, it got too bad and I couldn’t take it.”

“Shields,” Dean repeated stupidly. “To keep people’s heads out of your head?”

Sam nodded, wincing when the motion pulled at the wicked bruises on his throat. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Huh.” Dean stared at Sam, feeling thrown. And then it clicked. “That explains it!” he said excitedly. “I knew something was different about the way you were interacting with people, and that didn’t make sense, cuz if anything about a person doesn’t change, it’s how they act with strangers, and it didn’t make sense how you were connecting so easily instead of being all cool and stand-offish initially—I mean, you get close once you get to know someone—but really it’s because you were cheating and reading their minds. Ha!” Dean finished his triumph by grinning down at Sam and finding Sam looking like a total doofus grinning back at him. “What?” Dean asked warily.

“You’re loud. And happy. I like it when you’re happy.”

Dean couldn’t decide whether to make fun of Sam for being a sap or just roll his eyes, so he settled it by doing both. “Okay, I’ll start channeling my inner peace and meditating, if that helps.”

Sam smiled, his blinks were growing slower, and Dean remembered that Sam had nearly been beaten to death not too long ago.

“Sleep, Sam,” he said softly, trying to not let the panic he was feeling swamp him. Chances were Sam could tell, anyway, but at the very least he could attempt to let him get some rest. “We’ll talk later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are slow, I know, but I beg patience from everyone. Finals are coming up soon D:


	3. glia

“So. You can completely turn off this telepathy gig?”

Sam jumped at the unexpected words. “Huh?”

“I’ve been mentally calling you names for the past five minutes.” Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Have you ever tried talking into someone’s head?”

“I, uh, no,” Sam stammered.

“You could try. Might come in handy on hunts.”

Sam considered it briefly. “Yeah. Not while we’re driving though.”

“Ah.”

Sam desperately wanted to read his brother, but resisted the impulse.

“What’s it like, then?”

“Reading people?” Sam shifted in his seat. “I—it’s hard to describe.”

“Give it a try.”

“It’s like . . . everyone is on a different frequency, like radio stations. But when my shields are down, I can hear all the frequencies at once.”

“And it’s just words? Like people talking?”

Sam shook his head. “Yes and no. The outer layer is made up of their immediate thoughts, mostly words and some pictures and emotions. I think deeper would . . . be different. I haven’t tried to do that yet.”

“Okay.” Dean seemed to fall into contemplation, and Sam stared out the window. He wondered if Dean was thinking about him as a freak yet. Probably. He had always been the freak in their family, what was one more strange talent to add to the mix?

“Dude, we would wipe the tables at poker games. Can we go to Vegas?” Dean suddenly said.

“Um, Dean, the thing that killed Jess? Finding Dad? Ring a bell?”

Dean pouted at him, the expression ultimately not working on his face. “Just for the weekend? C’mon, Sammy, have a heart.”

Then again, while Dean didn’t have the face to pull it off, he sure did have the voice. Sam hunkered down in the Impala’s seat and sighed. “Do we need money?”

“If you’d rather not use all of the fake credit cards . . .” Dean wheedled.

Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Only a weekend. I say we go and we go. Got it?”

Dean grinned, and Sam could feel the pulsing glee. “You got it, Sammy.”

* * *

“Dude, this is awesome. You’ll be able to tell who the bad guys are now without even trying. Do you know how good we’ll be, hunting?”

Sam scrubbed his face wearily. “Pretty sure I can’t read ghosts,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Dean conceded. Sam jumped when his brother’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

“Tired,” Sam mumbled. Jess used to make him tea when he got this exhausted—Sam buried himself farther away, even though he knew Dean was trying to be there for him.

“Must’ve been a lot of work, sifting through those idiot’s heads to find the image of their cards, huh?” Dean said, a surprisingly discerning comment from him.

“Mmm.” Sam rubbed at his forehead and thought about a shower before discarding the impulse.

“Get some rest, Sammy. We’ll get back to work as soon as you’re ready.”

Sam flopped back on his bed, trying to will his headache away as he shored up his mental walls.

The brush of fingertips across his forehead helped the rest of the tension leech away, and Sam pressed into the hand, taking comfort from the touch. In the brief moments before he fell asleep, he could’ve sworn he heard: “You’re gonna be fine, Sammy. I promise.”

* * *

It was easier, knowing that Dean knew. Sam was able to relax, use his telepathy casually in hunting without having to worry about what Dean would think when he knew intimate details of the victim’s testimonies that they never said.

That didn’t mean it was completely easy.

“I want you to, Sam.”

Sam shifted on the bed, feeling oddly vulnerable because he was sitting and Dean was standing above him.

“Dean, it’s a bad idea. What if I get . . . stuck or something?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, better now than when it’s accidental or something. I know you can do it, Sammy.”

Sam eyed him warily. “Then why would you want me to? You hate talking about your feelings and repressed, stunted emotions as it is, you do realize that me being in your brain will mean I see everything?”

Finally, Dean’s mask broke a little, and Sam saw some of the shifting uncomfortableness that he knew his brother was really feeling. “Yeah. I know. And it’s not like . . .” Dean cast Sam a pained look. “If you go in, you’re going to see some things I never wanted you to see. But we need to know what your abilities entail. Just . . . promise me you won’t hate me?”

Sam softened. “I could never hate you, Dean.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dean muttered.

Sam bit his lip.

And entered.

The rabbiting pattern of Dean’s thoughts started with initial emotions—nervousness, maybe a slight fear, but an undercurrent of trust in Sam. Some wayward, half-formed sentences whispered in Sam’s—Dean’s—mind, saying that he should think of good things, he didn’t want to let Sam see . . . the more Dean tried to repress, the more thoughts of the bad hunts rose before Sam’s eyes and he saw his brother at his lowest. He saw his brother lash out in rage and hurt an innocent passerby, and oh, it was all his fault, no wonder Sammy had left, if Dean was such an awful . . . he was so lonely, maybe it'd be better if he was dead . . .

Sam went deeper, inter-webs of memory spread out before him. He touched one, and a million thoughts sprang up—the sight of a shotgun made Dean think of hunting, the sight of a college student made Dean think of Stanford . . .

Dean hated Stanford with a horrible, burning hatred that was irrational and he knew it. But how could Sam leave him? Dean had always been there for Sam, and how did he repay him? By leaving. Rejecting him. The—numerous insults spat themselves at him, rapid fire.

Resentment rose up like bile, Sam’s or Dean’s, he couldn’t tell, and Sam escaped, choking back what felt like tears. He hadn’t meant to hurt Dean, he just . . .

Sam gasped. He could feel it, not a memory, not a feeling, but something powerful, beautiful, made up of love and truth and Dean . . .

. . . and he suddenly knew that if he wanted to, he could destroy it with a thought.

Sam yanked back, pulling away from Dean’s mind and feeling pain wash over him—his pain? Dean’s had he hurt Dean?—and then blackness.

* * *

“Sammy? Please, Sammy, I need you to wake up, okay? You were right, this was a stupid idea. Wake up and bitch at me about it, please?”

Sam groaned.

“That’s it. Open your eyes, Sam. C’mon, do it for me.”

The light had dimmed—it wasn’t midday anymore, or maybe the blinds were shut. Dean—no, he was Sam—Sam squinted miserably, and whispered “ow.”

“What hurts, Sammy? No, don’t shut those eyes—“ Dean preemptively stopped Sam from escaping by touching the corner of his eye “—I need you to focus, okay? We need your shields up, focus, Sam.”

Then Sam realized that the wave of whispering and thoughts was not his own, and shut them out, feeling the ache in his head from overexertion.

“Ow,” he repeated.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know what happened, to be honest I couldn’t even tell you were in my brain, except I kept having weird thoughts that didn’t seem like my own. Are you okay? Noggin intact?”

There was a desperate fear leaking off of Dean, and Sam managed to flop one hand onto Dean’s forearm and grasp it weakly. “Don’t leave,” he pleaded. “Don’t hate me.”

“Sam, why would I hate you?”

His eyes were hot and aching, and Sam didn’t know why. “Freak, always a freak, left you alone, didn’t want . . .”

“Hey, Sam. Don’t cry, little brother, I’m right here.” Rough calluses brushed underneath Sam’s wet eyes, and chapped lips pressed against his forehead. “Sleep, Sammy. Just stay in your own mind. You’re Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire and genius, remember? You’re you.”

Sam slept.

* * *

“Alright, lemme hear it.”

“Mmm?” Sam looked up from his humongous coffee—good, rich coffee, just the way he liked it—to see Dean standing with his hands on his hips.

“I know you want to say it, just tell me ‘I told you so.’”

Sam turned up his lips wryly. “Dean, I agreed to it. I’m just glad I didn’t melt your brain accidentally.”

“Oh.” Dean flopped down on the chair opposite Sam’s. “Okay, then. So, what was it like?”

Sam searched for the words. “It was . . . I could feel you, all of you.”

“Kinky,” Dean smirked, and Sam swatted him.

“I think I felt your soul,” Sam said after a pause. “It was you. I can still sense you now.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Soul?” he said skeptically. “Okay. Well, what about practical applications?”

Sam rolled his cup between his hands. “I think, if we’re ever separated, you can call and I’ll hear you.”

_“Like this?”_

Sam jumped. “Not so loud,” he complained.

Dean grinned. “Okay, okay. No overloading though. I do not want to wipe away blood coming out of your ears and nose again, got it?”

Sam nodded obediently.

“Anything else?”

Sam swallowed. “I think . . . if I really wanted to, I could take someone’s mind over. Wipe it blank. Kill them,” he said. His voice was soft, like that could make any difference in making Dean see him as less than a freak.

Dean nodded. “Okay. Be careful with that, bro.”

That was Dean. Always strong and trusting. Sam gave him a look that he knew was sappy. “Don’t change, Dean. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t want to leave you, when I went to Stanford, just the hunt.”

“Ooookay, no need for chick flick territory.” Dean stood, rolling his eyes. “I’ll let you write in your diary, I need to go check the tire pressure.”

Sam grinned into his cup as Dean passed him, one hand reaching out and ruffling Sam’s hair.

Maybe, even if Sam was a freak, they would be okay.


	4. voltage

Just because Sammy had some special mind mojo didn’t meant Dean would treat him differently. He capped the pen he had been using to draw on Sam’s face and faced forward again, grinning. They were stuck in a traffic jam, and Sam had dropped off to sleep half an hour ago.

With a start, Sam woke, just as an ambulance passed on the other side of the road, sirens screaming.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

Sam groaned, swiping at his mouth with an uncoordinated hand.

“Where are we?”

“Still in traffic, genius.” Dean tapped the steering wheel in time to his song and smirked at Sam’s hair and decorated face.

“You drew on my face?”

Stupid mind reading tricks. Dean had hoped he could get away with it for at least a day.

“If you weren’t thinking so loud about how hilarious I look, you might’ve,” Sam grumbled, speaking to Dean’s thoughts. Dean considered that it should be rather off-putting, but since he and his brother knew each other well enough to finish each other’s sentences anyway, it was almost normal.

“Shouldn’t be too long before we get there,” Dean judged, looking at the traffic. “And when I say too long, I mean it should be less than a year or so.”

“Ha ha.” Sam had tilted the mirror down and was scrubbing at his face. “Could you be any more immature?”

“Would you like me to be?” Dean asked innocently.

Sam rolled his eyes. Out of the corner of Dean’s own, he noticed how stiffly Sam was holding himself.

“If you wanna get out and run beside the Impala, chances are you’ll get to where we’re headed faster than me.” Dean tossed Sam a careless grin.

“Mmm.” Sam rubbed the heel of his hand into his forehead. “Think it’ll be a lot longer?”

“Probably. Headache?” Dean asked casually.

Sam shrugged. “Everyone’s irritated. Stressed.”

Dean frowned. “Can you go back to sleep, then?”

Sam shrugged, and Dean sighed. This would be a long drive.

* * *

“Dude. Not cool. I’m not chatting up some shrink, you’re gonna do it.”

Sam gave him a look that said he was being stupid. “Dean. If I’m going to get the information by reading his mind, then I can’t talk about something else at the same time. Plus, if anyone needs therapy, it's you.”

Affronted, Dean glowered.”Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“You have to deal with looking at that face in the mirror every morning, I mean, that’s gotta be traumatic,” Sam smirked, pleased with his own cleverness.

“Oh, you little bitch.” Dean yanked Sam’s hair and Sam yelped.

“Jerk,” he muttered, rubbing his head.

“Fine, I’ll go get psychoanalyzed. No listening in.”

“Yessir.” Sam mock saluted and got out of the Impala before Dean could punch him.

The good Dr. Ellicott, irritatingly enough, had a very comfortable couch. “So, Dean, is it?”

Dean slouched on aforementioned too-comfortable couch. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“What would you like to talk about, today?”

Dean brightened. “I was looking into that asylum. Know anything about it?”

Dr. Ellicott looked at him too knowingly. “Don’t avoid the issue here, Dean. We’re here to talk about you.”

Dean put a strained smile on his face. “Alright, then.”

“So, what’s going on in your life?”

Dean noticed he was bouncing his leg and consciously stopped it. “On a road trip with my brother. It’s great.”

“Yes, it could be.” Dr. Ellicott gave him a discerning look. “But being in such a small space with a relative can be stressful. How is your relationship with your brother?”  “Great.”

“No trouble? No resentment building up?” Ellicott asked mildly.

Dean glowered. “Don’t try and put words in my mouth. We’re great.”

“So, the lack of privacy doesn’t bother you?”

Dean licked his lips nervously. “I mean, sure, it’d be nice to have a little more space, but nah, we’re good.”

“So when you’re not road tripping, what do you do?”

He plastered on a grin. “I’m more of a drifter, myself.”

“And your brother?” Dr. Ellicott raised an eyebrow.

Dean winced. “Um, yeah, not until recently. His stuff fell through, so he’s been tagging along with me.”

"I see. And how does that make you feel?”

* * *

White hot rage was swirling through Dean’s veins, freeing him and lighting up his nerves. He felt blood dripping out of his nose and angrily scrubbed it away. He could hear Sam, the traitor, and crept up behind him. He held his gun out like he would shoot Dean. Well, Dean wouldn’t let that happen. He slammed the stock of his gun across Sam’s upper back, forcing his little brother to stumble.

“Dean, it’s me.”

Dean sneered. “I know who you are. Sam. Always doing whatever you want and not even caring about us at all. In my head all the time but you don’t even care about me.” He had never hated anyone more in his life.

“Dean, this isn’t you, c’mon.”

“You left me!”

Dean snarled and lunged at him, but Sam dodged. Dean could shoot him, but . . . well, Dean couldn’t kill him, right? Though maybe he should. Sam dodged his blow and—Dean shuddered. An electric shock shuddered through his nerves and his brain, like something was trying to fight back. He needed to shoot Sam. No, he didn’t, did he? He needed to protect Sam, he had to . . .

“Dean?” There was blood coming out of Sam’s nose as well. Dean dazedly stared at him. “Are you back?” Back from where?

He was distracted, and too late he shouted as Ellicott came up behind Sam. “Sammy, look out!”

Dean could vaguely remember Ellicott touching his mind, feeling a shock of pain, and then the unadulterated rage, still in control of his body. Sam, though, went down like a sack of bricks. Dean roared, rage directed—finally—at the right source. He blew Ellicott away and went for the bones.

“Sammy? C’mon, don’t die, the ghost is dead. You can handle a little ghost shocking, can’t you?” He rolled Sam onto his back and brushed away the blood.

Sam’s eyes were trying to focus on him, but couldn’t quite make it. Dean bit his lip, hard, levering Sam over his shoulder to carry him out. The kids were probably still in the asylum, but they could get themselves out.

But, well, Dean couldn’t exactly carry Sam over a tall fence. Sam pawed at his back and Dean set him down slowly. “Easy, Sammy. You okay?”

Sam managed to cough. “Yeah. That was not fun.”

“I hear ya. We need to get out of this place. Should I go get some heavy duty clippers and come back to get you out that way?” Dean asked earnestly.

Sam shook his head slowly. “Just . . . boost me up.”

Dean frowned. “Sam . . .”

“Do it.” He managed to stand, and Dean sighed heavily.

“Careful when you land.”

At least Sam managed to land on his feet, even though his legs did crumple beneath him and he ended up on hands and knees. Dean swung himself over the fence and growled like an angry mama bear, getting Sam into the car. Not that he thought of himself as a mother bear, that was stupid.

* * *

“We’re okay, right?” Dean asked abruptly, one hundred miles away from Rockford.

“Mmm. Sleep now, chick flick later,” Sam mumbled.

“You’re a little snot,” Dean muttered, but couldn't help feeling guilt pressing heavy in his gut at what he had said to his little brother. “Sam, I didn’t mean those things I said.”

Sam’s hand flopped like a dying fish onto Dean’s shoulder. “You did. S’okay. Everyone’s got something they’re mad about, s’human kinda . . . thingie.”

“Thingie?”

“Shaddap. I had my brain fried, I deserve a break.”

“So did I,” Dean shot back mildly. In the back of his mind he calculated the chances that Ellicott’s shocking might’ve done actual damage. Should they go to a clinic? Get an MRI? He would have to be on the lookout for any signs.

Sam childishly stuck out his tongue.

“So, you are okay? I mean, all that stuff about you leaving . . . I was proud of you getting into Stanford, y’know, I just . . . resent it. I try not to, but I can’t really help it.” Dean swallowed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. If he were the mind reader, he would be prying into Sam’s right now to know what he was thinking. Probably that Dean was a pathetic excuse for an older brother.

Sam sighed, noisily.

“Remember the part where I can read your mind, idiot? I know all of this. Maybe if I didn’t know what you were thinking I might get mad, but, well—“ Sam shrugged “—we’re in this together. And I know you’re trying your best. Now, if you want to continue emoting, do so to the car, she’ll listen to you.” Sam curled up on the seat like he had when he was 13, head on Dean’s leg and his own legs awkwardly falling over the edge. Dean felt nostalgia rearing its head and swallowed thickly, letting a hand drop onto Sam’s shoulder. He frowned at how bony it was.

“Hey, are you eating enough?” He poked Sam, feeling wiry muscle and ribs too close to the surface.

“Why, need to use me as bait for Hanzel and Gretel’s witch?” Sam mumbled.

“Seriously, Sam. I know you’re missing Jessica—“ underneath Dean’s palm, Sam’s heart rate picked up “—but that’s no excuse for not taking care of yourself.”

And . . . darn it. Dean felt tears start to soak into his jeans and wanted to sigh with resignation. Sometimes Jessica’s death seemed to hit Sam out of nowhere all over again and rip his lungs out. Sam made to sit up and pull away but Dean kept pressure with his hand on the juncture between Sam’s shoulder and neck, eyes on the road. “It’s okay, bro.”

“I felt her die, Dean,” his little brother shuddered under his hand. “She left, and I didn’t do anything.”

“You couldn’t, Sammy. It’s okay to miss her, though. But it’s not your fault.”

Sam closed his eyes, the denim damp underneath him. “Isn’t it?” he whispered.

“No. It’s not,” Dean said strongly, but a glance at Sam’s tear-stained face told him that Sam was far from believing that, yet. It was another twenty miles before Sam’s body finally relaxed, despite the awkward position, and Dean allowed himself to sigh.

“Look at the two of us, kiddo,” he mumbled, the open road like every other they had been on ahead of him. “We’re never gonna make it.”


	5. axon

Things were still tentative between them. After the asylum, and then the freaky case with the scarecrow, there were still some torn bonds that needed mending. Sam had come close to leaving, but he hadn’t (and thank goodness or they would be dead if Sam hadn’t been able to read the townspeople and know what they were doing). But they were good. Even this hunt . . . well, Sam was sure it was going to be fine. As long as he could get back to Dean to help him out.

Sam felt the distinct roar of adrenaline in his veins as he carried the children out. Their terror was only a distraction, his own mind focused on the heady intensity of suspense that Dean was experiencing as he rooted out the rawhead.

Setting the kids down, he told them urgently, “stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Sam darted back into the dilapidated house, the grip on his gun, his fingers locked tight. Not that the gun would do much good—Dean had his taser though, so this was all he had. Chances were that Dean would get the rawhead before he even got down, but still.

Sam felt a flash of panic and fear that nearly halted him in his tracks. _He was going to get shocked but he had to shoot it and—_

“Dean!” he roared, both mentally and vocally, pounding down the stairs to the basement. His brother was unconscious, that was all, probably just knocked into a wall, which would explain the flare of pain.

But as Sam skidded to a stop at the bottom, his eyes adjusting quickly, he saw the carcass of the rawhead and Dean on the floor. The wet floor.

_No._

Sam darted to Dean’s side, finger’s feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Sam started CPR, desperately searching with his mind for Dean’s, trying to wake him up. Could he wake someone up? He had never tried.

“Dean, c’mon,” he grunted, counting out compressions. “Don’t do this, man.” A couple breaths, and he got back into rhythm, trying to use enough force, but not too much.

There it was. Dean choked, and then he was wheezing, short little breaths that were far too weak for Sam’s taste. For a moment, Sam rested in the reassurance that he could feel Dean’s mind again, and then he dipped down, hoisting Dean up against his chest.

“S’m.”

“I’m here, Dean, just hang on,” Sam carefully made his way upstairs—he could hear sirens, so hopefully the kids had run over to the neighbor’s house and gotten help. He thought briefly of St. Louis . . . but no, there would be no connection unless they dug.

“Breathe, Dean,” Sam whispered as Dean’s chest stuttered in its rhythm. Sam projected calm and comfort as best he could, even as paramedics took Dean from his arms.

He couldn’t lose Dean. He just couldn’t.

* * *

Sam could taste the resignation coloring Dean’s thoughts, and so he pushed himself heavily, keeping his shields at maximum level.

“Hey idiot, I’ve been talking for a minute, and you aren’t even listening, are you?”

Sam flinched at the noise. “What?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “What’s the point of having special mind powers if you won’t have secret conversations via brain radio?”

“Right. Sorry.” He wasn’t.

“Dude, let’s go somewhere cool.”

Sam could read the underlying message without his telepathy—I want to die somewhere other than this awful motel room—and he was having none of it. “We’re heading to Nebraska,” he announced.

Dean’s shadowed eyes looked at him with surprise. “What’s there?”

“Faith healer.”

Sam had let his shields drop, so he could feel the blatant amusement. “Sammy, c’mon. I’ve had a good run, y’know? I’m not afraid to die.”

Sam shut his laptop with a snap. “I’m not going to feel you die in my head, Dean. I refuse. So get over it.”

Dean paled, his already-white face going paper white. Sam didn’t wait for him to speak, throwing their duffels over his shoulder. “I’m driving.”

* * *

The instant they stepped out of the car, Sam felt everything wash over him. Emotions, sharp as knives, people desperate for a cure, disbelief mixed with a fervent faith that was heady with its strength.

Sam had to concentrate. Picking their way through the mud, it was easy enough to keep his mind focused on Dean’s and block out everyone else’s. If he wasn’t careful, he would get lost in despair for the desperate people.

“Go on, Sammy.” Dean nudged his shoulder as they sat down near the front. “Pick his mind, see if he’s a quack.”

Sam shook his head.

“Dude, what if he’s doing something wrong,” Dean hissed.

Sam bit his lip. “It’s called faith for a reason, Dean,” he replied.

Dean looked outraged, but then the service started. Sam steadfastly kept his mind closed as the man’s blind eyes moved over to Dean, praying with every fiber of his being that his brother would be healed. He would give anything.

* * *

“I swear, I saw something, Sam. I don’t know what your issue is, but you need to read their minds right now.”

Sam placed a hand over Dean’s heart, letting the steady beat thump against his hand for a moment. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Sammy . . .”

He closed his eyes and carefully let himself reach out, touching different minds one by one before moving on. When he touched Layla—the girl with so much faith—he allowed himself to pause for a moment and take strength from her courage before moving on.

He came back to a worried Dean and blood under his nose. “It’s Sue Ann. The wife. LeGrange has no idea, but she’s leashed up a reaper. There’s an altar and something else.”

“Right.” Dean stood up stiffly. “I’ll handle it.”

“No, Dean.” Sam stood too quickly, swaying. “You almost died. I can do it.” He could hear Dean’s protest reverberating through his mind, but ignored it.

After Sam took out the altar, he headed for the woman.

“You need to stop,” he said, sounding—he thought—properly intimidating.

She looked at him askance. “Your brother was healed, and you would threaten me?”

“Please,” Sam pleaded. “You don’t know what you’re messing with. Reapers? That’s just asking for trouble.”

“How did you—“

“It’s wrong. No matter how you think you’re doing God’s work, you’re not.” Sam stood in front of her, keeping her from running. “Call the reaper off. Stop this.”

“Never,” Sue Ann snarled, backing up.

Sam closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He drew the information from her mind and snatched away the necklace, smashing it to the ground. It was the oldest hunter trick in the book. To avoid killing a human, have their pet evil baddie do it for you.

Sam felt her die, a sensation that was fast leading him to despise everything evil. As if he didn’t have enough motivation to keep hunting and keep people from dying.

* * *

It was only as they sat in the motel that Dean broke the silence.

“You could have known, and you didn’t.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“An innocent person died because of me.”

“Because of me,” Sam murmured. “I can carry that guilt. Don’t take that on your own shoulders.”

Dean’s fingers blanched white where his fists were clenched on his knees. “Sam, you deliberately didn’t use your gift, so yeah it’s your fault and it’s mine. This gift, curse, whatever it is—you misuse it like that and you’re as bad as Sue Ann.”

Sam felt his breath catch in his throat—it was the first time Dean had admitted to his misgivings about Sam’s abilities. “I didn’t . . . I thought Roy was legitimate. Not . . .”

“I know that, Sam. But this whole thing felt wrong, and someone died because of me.”

“I just wanted to have faith.” Sam slammed his eyes shut and felt his hands rhythmically opening and closing.

“Sammy . . .” Dean said, sounding helpless. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Sam jerked his head in a nod.

“I need to know what you’re thinking.”

Sam paused. “What if you could?” he murmured.

Dean shot him a glance before returning his gaze to the floor. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve established that I can hear your thoughts and transfer thoughts to you. What if I could—open my mind?”

Dean hesitated. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

“I don’t know.” Sam bit his lip. “It could be dangerous for you.”

“I meant for you, idiot,” Dean said, his tone lacking its usual bite.

Sam shrugged.

“Do it,” Dean bit out suddenly. “I need you . . . you know everything I think, just for once I need to know you.”

“Try not to fight it," Sam whispered. He wanted to reach out to Dean, but knew instinctively his touch would be unwelcome. Instead, he pressed his fingertips against his skull and began breaking down his walls, creating a kind of channel towards Dean.

It was tempting, but Sam did not edit back the parts of himself that Dean might not like—his anger towards their father, his irritation at Dean for not taking his side, and his dislike for hunting.

Sam heard Dean inhale swiftly, and opened his eyes to see Dean’s roll back into his head.

“Dean!”

His brother was too still—again—and Sam grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“Don't be dead, don’t be dead, please, not again.”

Dean groaned, eyes scrunched in his typical sign of pain. “Is that what it feels like for you?”

“You’re okay? Please be okay.”

“Sam, calm down, you're going to have a panic attack. Breathe.” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder and levered himself into a sitting position.

“Stop scaring me like that,” Sam said with a shudder. "I can’t—“ He swallowed his words. Dean didn’t want to hear that.

“I know what you’re thinking now, Sammy. Sorry for not seeing it, before,” Dean said suddenly.

Sam frowned. "Seeing what?”

“I guess . . . I didn't really think you cared that much.”

Sam had no idea how to respond. “Um . . . why not?”

“You—“ Dean looked shifty and guilty. “For three years you didn’t call me, and I just thought—“

“—that meant I didn’t need you,” Sam finished for him.

Dean's ears were red. “Okay, we can stop talking now.”

“You get it, though, right?” Sam asked anxiously.

“Yes, you love me, now let me braid your hair and we’ll be doing great.” Dean was trying to scowl, but wasn’t quite making it.

Sam took a deep breath. “So you know why I can’t lose you.”

Dean’s face went helplessly fond. “Yeah, you enormous girl. Now shut up.”


	6. interneurons

“I’m just saying, we should hit Vegas again,” Dean said absently.

“You’re hilarious,” Sam returned, poring over his—previously Dean’s until Sam had taken it over right after Stanford—laptop.

“Well, then plan on hitting the bars.” Dean kept his tone light . . . it wasn’t that he was hesitant around Sam, it was after their—well, after Dean had been the one reading Sam’s mind, things were a little off.

“Joy,” Sam deadpanned.

Dean grinned. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“At least I can make sure none of the girls you go off with have any diseases,” Sam muttered, finally snapping the laptop shut and stretching.

“Spoil all of my fun,” Dean said, expecting and gleefully receiving a classic bitch face.

“Yes, because HIV is fun,” Sam growled.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine, wingman. Let’s do this.”

Dean wasn’t a bad brother, but he still felt a little bad abandoning Sam for a quick night out. His brother was old enough to take care of himself, he reasoned, but there was always a feeling that Sam shouldn’t be so . . . well, alone.

That feeling was only tripled as Dean came back to a motel room and Sam wasn’t on his bed asleep.

“Sam?”

“Dean,” Sam whimpered.

In an instant, Dean had gone into high alert, slamming his way into the room and vaulting over the bed to where Sam was slumped in-between the two.

“Sam, what is it?” His little brother looked wrecked, and Dean’s eyes darted around the room, looking for some kind of threat.

“I can hear him, Dean, he’s dying, I don’t, he’s so far away, why—“

“Sammy, focus on me. Hey.” Dean took a hold of Sam’s face and turned Sam to face him. “Remember? You can go into my mind. Promise. Focus, block them all out.”

Sam groaned and grabbed Dean’s arm. “We have to go. It’s—Michigan. Please, Dean, now.”

All too often, Dean tended to second-guess any decisions of Sam. Something ingrained in his older brother identity and overbearing tendencies that Dean knew annoyed Sam. At this point, though, Dean was willing to go along with Sam, so long as he could get the pain off of his littler brother’s face.

* * *

“You weren’t wrong,” Dean said, casting a worried glance at Sam. “So you felt this guy die? Any idea why him?”

Sam shook his head, lips pinched. “Maybe my powers are growing.”

“To find some guy who was dying hours away rather than someone in the nearby hospital?” Dean said skeptically. The lights of the cop cars were casting Sam’s face in flashes of red and blue, and Dean drew his brother back by the elbow. “C’mon, we’ll go get a room and come back in the morning.”

“Something’s wrong,” Sam muttered. “I can’t figure out what it is, though.”

“Which is why we’ll come back,” Dean said patiently. “Sometime before you fall over.”

Grudgingly, Sam went with him.

As soon as they got a room, Dean flopped down on the bed. He could sense Sam coming to stand next to him and unwillingly cracked open an eye. “What is it, Sammy?”

“Aren’t you freaked?” Sam said in a rush.

“I’m always freaked out by your hair, Sammy,” Dean mumbled.

“Not funny, Dean.”

With a sigh, Dean rolled onto his back. “Dude. Relax. We’ve handled everything your psychic juju has thrown at us. No reason for this to be different, got it?”

“Got it,” Sam whispered. He moved into the bathroom, allowing Dean some breathing room.

“Ten bucks says he won’t sleep tonight,” Dean told the ceiling seriously before closing his eyes and dropping off himself.

Morning dawned, and Sam’s shadowed eyes confirmed Dean’s bet. Not that the ceiling would be paying him anything.

“Alright, so let’s go crash a funeral party,” Dean said briskly, clapping his hands together. “Because I’m a genius, I know just how we’ll do this.”

* * *

“I hate you so, so, much,” Sam said fervently, pulling at his collar.

Dean smirked. “Yeah, you do.”

For a moment, Sam looked alarmed. “No, I actually don’t.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “So, did Stanford take away your ability to sense sarcasm, or is that just the lack of sleep you got last night?”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, pressing the doorbell. “You do the talking so I can concentrate.”

Dean didn’t have time to say anything before the door opened. He stepped in smoothly with their cover story—being priests meant getting into anywhere, they would definitely have to save the costumes—and got them inside. Dean felt Sam shadowing him and focused on drawing attention in the conversation to himself so Sam wouldn’t get any weird looks for the constipated expression he got from using his telepathy.

Once they were finally left sitting alone, Dean turned to Sam. “Verdict?”

“Mostly ordinary, grief . . . the guy wasn’t super nice, though,” Sam mumbled. “There’s something . . . The corner—“

Dean flashed a look. “Kid. Doesn’t look like a threat, just a very emo kid. Why, what’s your read?”

A line was between Sam’s eyebrows. “I can’t. I can’t read him.”

Dean stiffened. “So, what are we thinking? Shifter?”

“I’ll find out.” Sam stood, moving over to the kid before Dean could ask what the plan was. Instead, he watched tensely from the sidelines as Sam said some probably soothing words, and then reached around his neck. Dean blinked in surprise as he drew out a silver cross on a chain and passed it over. Sam had really taken this priest thing seriously.

Both of them watched intently as the kid handled the cross, but there was no reaction to the silver.

Sam must have said something else, because he then stood with another murmur of platitudes and moved back to Dean. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Sure.” Dean waited until they were outside to speak again. “So, what do you think?”

“I think he’s the one doing it. But I don’t think he’s supernatural.”

“Well, he could be possessed—“ Dean started, but Sam shook his head.

“Coated my hand in holy water before I shook his. He’s not possessed.”

Dean was mildly impressed, but that left them with nothing. “Well, good thinking, wearing the cross. Really played the part to the hilt.”

Sam was silent, and Dean threw him a glance.

“I, uh, I wear that. Most of the time.”

Wrong-footed, Dean opened his mouth but nothing came out. “Right,” he finally said, not ready to dive in and learn another facet of his brother yet. “So, you think the kid killed his dad?”

Sam rubbed his forehead. “Maybe. We’ll have to keep an eye on the family.”

* * *

Keeping an eye on the family had turned into a chase after the uncle, another death, and a realization of Max’s real guilt. Dean, however, was mostly worried about Sam, who kept connecting to the members of Max’s family in alarming ways, not to mention his deep belief that he and Max were the same. Grimly, Dean tended to Max’s step-mom as Sam stayed downstairs with Max and a gun in Max’s hand. He tried, quietly, to project to Sam, but got no feedback—most likely, Sam was completely focused on Max.

Dean didn’t bother to hide his anxiety from the step-mom, for the most part ignoring her. From the little Sam had projected into his head, Sam planned on talking Max down, and since when had that ever worked?

Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by a gunshot, and Dean’s heart stopped.

Slamming out of the bedroom and vaulting down the stairs, he made his way into the living room and found Sam half-standing, arms raised in some pleading position, Max dead at his feet with the gun in his lax hand.

“Sam!” Dean barked, grabbing his brother roughly. Sam resisted for a moment, eyes blank as he gazed at Max’s body until Dean got into his line of sight.

“Sammy,” he said, softer this time. “Focus. Are you hurt?”

Sam wasn’t responding, so Dean slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, c’mon, bro. Look at me.”

“He was like me, Dean, he was just like me.”

Dean swore under his breath and glanced at the step-mother, who was also staring at the body in shock. “Okay, we’re going to call the cops, Sam, and you and I are cousins and were here to talk him down. He got the gun himself, probably illegally, got it?”

Sam nodded, but Dean was not convinced. Still, they each had their strengths. Sam was at connecting with the victims—Dean thought of Max and winced, and so did Sam, crap he had caught the tail-end of that thought—and Dean was better at crowd control. Or in this case police control.

He extracted them relatively easily from the clutches of the police, got them back to their motel room and grabbed pizza for dinner. All in the day’s work for a hunter. Now, it was time to take on his older brother duty.

“Sam? What happened back there?” Dean asked gently.

Sam began twisting his hands together. “I didn’t . . . I thought I was getting through to him, but I think he wanted concrete answers. I couldn’t explain why we had our powers, and he got upset.”

“He try to shoot you?” Dean checked.

“No. I mean, I sort of caught his thought—he might have wanted to, but he just really wanted to kill his step-mother. He was focused on her, and he was willing to go through you, and I—“

“What?”

Sam’s eyes slid to the left, usually Sam’s tell for a bluff. But there was no reason for Sam to lie . . . “I guess something snapped, then he shot himself.”

Dean nodded, relieved at the straightforward end to the story. “Well, you did all you could.”

Sam nodded, opening his mouth and then closing it.

“What, Sammy?”

“I—nothing. It just . . . doesn’t it scare you? What I can do? I don’t want to be like Max, Dean. I can’t.”

“You won’t be.”

“How? Look at us. It’s not like there’s anything making me different from him.”

“You’ve got me,” Dean said firmly. “And as long as I’m around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.” He reached into his pocket. “I snagged this for you,” he said awkwardly, passing the cross to Sam, who took it with hesitant fingers.

Sam swallowed and sank onto the bed. “Thanks, Dean,” he said softly.

Dean was pretty sure he was missing something. Clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder briefly, Dean headed to the shower. There was only so much he could do.


	7. terminals

Sam didn’t tell Dean. He felt terrible for keeping secrets—he had kept the telepathy from Dean for a short while, and that had made him feel awful—but he had no choice. It wasn’t necessarily that Sam thought these . . . powers . . . were evil. Though more and more, he thought they might be. When Max had tried to push Sam with his telepathy, it hadn’t worked. And then Sam had stopped the bullet Max had shot, turning it around and sending it through Max’s brain.

He hadn’t meant to do it. At least, that was what Sam was telling himself so that he didn’t go insane. Sam had caught the thought that Max was having—killing Dean to get to his step-mother—and had reacted.

But he was a killer. Dean couldn’t know. Sam couldn’t stand having Dean look at him like a freak, one of the monsters they killed.

“I need to hit the head.” Dean shoved at Sam’s shoulder. “Wait for me at the car.”

Sam lived off of his brother’s affection, and he wasn’t willing to give that away. So he smiled blandly. “Don’t get lost.”

Dean guffawed. “Yeah, you’re hilarious. Get out of here.”

Sam was so lost in thought that he didn’t even see the blow coming until it was too late.

* * *

Everything was spinning and syrupy and he was . . . Sam? That was his name. Maybe. Or maybe not. He ate human flesh and laughed at the whimpering cries of prey, he was the hunter incarnate and—

Dean. Sam ignored the other voices in his head and focused. He could find Dean.

He just had to . . . reach and oh it _hurt_ he couldn’t, Dean.

 _“Sammy? Sam, where are you, are you okay—“_ Sam swallowed back nausea _“Please be okay, please.”_

“Dean.”

 _“Sam?”_ There was fear, and Sam couldn’t tell if it was his own or his brother’s, was he afraid? Why would Dean be afraid, was he in a cage too?

“Dean.”

_“Sammy, I need you to focus. What hurts?”_

Sam couldn’t stop his emotions from spilling over, terror and fear and he was going to die. “Head.” It throbbed.

_“Okay, Sammy, focus. Focus on my voice. Now, where are you?”_

“Cage.” He was a freak, they were going to hunt him like the monster he was, he had always known—

There was a stab of refusal that didn’t come from Sam, and he stopped.

 _“Sam. Please.”_ There was a long silence, and then there was a vague sensation of worry

“Love you. In barn, dark, cold.” Sam went silent—his head hurt so much he couldn’t hold up he needed his shields—

There was someone in the cage next to him. Sam held his head cautiously and looked over. “Hello?”

“We’re gonna die here.”

Sam instantly hated his mind, full of despair and darkness and a bitterness that turned his thoughts sour.

“We’ll get out,” he said, his tongue stumbling over the words. His head hurt so much, he couldn’t focus.

“Yeah right, kid.”

“My brother. He’ll . . . he’ll find me.”

The man laughed. “Uh huh. Just watch. I’ve been here a whole day. They haven’t let me out, and at this point, I just hope they kill you before me.”

One last surge of the man’s bitterness allowed Sam the strength to put up his walls. He had to . . . he had to focus. That’s what Dean told him to do. Sam tentatively tried to reach out again, but he had lost the uncontrollable surge of power that had enabled him to initially find Dean.

For the first time in a while, Sam was completely alone.

* * *

Time passed in strange long segments. Sam thought he was probably experiencing some bad side effects from having his head hit. Maybe. Everything was definitely off, though, and he and his fellow prisoner were not fed or given any water, which didn’t help.

He was sitting in a daze when suddenly the other guy’s latch was buzzed open. Sam sat up quickly, jolting his head and groaning.

“Did you do that?”

“No. I don’t care what it is, but I’m getting out of here.”

Sam grabbed at his own bars. “No, wait, it’s probably a trap!”

“Yeah? Well, sorry but I don’t care. This is my best shot.”

“No!” Sam hissed, but the man was already leaving. Trembling, Sam opened his mind and latched onto the other man’s. He ignored the terror and adrenaline, focusing on the surroundings. He had to know, so he could tell Dean.

All too soon, the man was chased into the forest. The sheer amount of fear rolling off of him was channelled straight through Sam, his own breathing speeding up and his palms sweaty where they clutched the bars.

Sam felt him die and heard the shot simultaneously, crashing back into his own mind with an overwhelming sense of desperate fear.

* * *

Sam was lost in a strange space of sickness and fear when he felt Dean’s mind again. Immediately he reached out, desperately latching on and trying to make sure he was real. He could sense Dean’s inability to cope with Sam’s overwhelming presence, so he tried to pull himself back.

“Dean!” _DeanDeanDeanDeanaliveneedyou._

_“Sammy, I’m almost to you, hold on, relax.”_

With effort, Sam was able to control his telepathy. He sobbed in a deep breath and focused himself. “Where are you?”

_“Coming towards you, buddy. Focus. Where are you?”_

“Barn.” Sam strengthened their link so Dean could follow it to him. Dean drew closer and closer, and then finally, finally, Dean was there.

“Hey Sammy. It is good to see you, little brother.”

“Dean,” Sam said with far too much desperation.

Dean’s facade of lightheartedness faded away, and his brother put his hand on top of Sam’s where the bars allowed him to grip. “Hey. No worries, we’ll get you out of here.”

“It’s automated, you need a key,” Sam told him.

“Right. Wait here, I’ll get it.”

Panic surged up, sour in Sam’s throat. “No! You can’t, they’ll kill you! They eat people, Dean, there are too many, you can’t—“

“I’ve got back up, Sammy. Don’t worry man, I’ve got this.”

Sam watched, helpless, as Dean left. He followed Dean with his mind, ignoring the amused cues of Dean’s mind as he noticed Sam was there.

He could only scream in rage and terror as Dean was taken by surprise, despite Sam’s warnings. Sam observed through Dean’s eyes as they heated up a poker and oh, no, they couldn’t he wouldn’t let them he had to stop, they had to _get away from his brother_ —

* * *

Sam woke up to Dean’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him and a high pitched whining in his ears.

“Sa—Sammy, what did you do, you idiot. C’mon, snap out of it.”

“Dean?” Sam mumbled. He wasn’t sure what happened next, just that Dean managed to shuffle them out of there after talking to someone and stealing one of the junkers the cannibalistic family had used.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot, and I swear if you do that again I will punch you in the face and then I will dye your hair green. You hear that? Green. Yeah. No, I lied, it’s going to be pink. Because you are a moron.”

Sam tried to ask him what he was talking about, but only managed to set off something fiery and painful in his brain. He whimpered, clutching at his head.

“That doesn’t mean rip out your hair, Sam, stop! Dude, c’mon, relax. Don’t think about anything. Uh, think about puppies. And dinosaurs, you used to be obsessed with dinosaurs.”

Sam blinked, attempting to focus on Dean. “Wha’ happened?”

“What happened is that you’re an idiot!”

“Huh?” Sam tried to make sense of Dean’s words, but it wasn’t working.

“You stopped them, Sam. Stopped them dead still, like they were frozen.”

“Wha—“

“Look, don’t think about it. Sammy, you’re going to hurt yourself, I know that look. C’mon, focus on something calm.”

“Calm,” Sam repeated dumbly. One of Dean’s hands rested on his head while the other was on the wheel. “Calm. You hurt?”

“Thanks to you, no. Sleep, Sam.”

Sam had far too many questions, but he couldn’t help but obey his brother when he used that tone.

* * *

He woke up with a splitting headache and too many questions to handle, Dean at his side.

“Alright Sam. Before you have an aneurysm. Focus. What did you do while you were in the cage?”

“When?” Sam rubbed his forehead wearily.

“When I went in the house.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. Why?”

“Because as soon as they got near me with a burning poker, you stopped them,” Dean said softly.

Sam could definitively tell the blood was draining away from his face. “I killed them?”

“No, no, don’t pass out.” Dean’s eyes were vibrant green, not the washed out fear Sam was expecting. “They just . . . froze. Long enough for the cop to come in and get me out.”

“Cop?”

Dean grinned. “Took a bit to convince her I wasn’t crazy and that you were psychic. I’m pretty sure that stunt figured her.”

Sam automatically returned to his the subject of his powers. “Froze?”

“Like time stopped.”

Sam shuddered. “I didn’t even . . . I didn’t try to do that.”

Dean’s face went serious. “I know. You nearly killed yourself. You can’t do that again.”

Sam made up his mind. “No more powers.”

Dean paused. “Wait, you mean—“

“Not at all. Not for anything. We saw how Max used his powers, and now this—these powers may be good or evil, we don’t know, but it’s too much power. I won’t use them anymore.”

Dean frowned. “I thought it was hard for you to shield?”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re sure?” Dean was completely aligned to Sam, attention in every line of his body.

“I’m positive,” Sam said determinedly.

“Unless it’s an emergency, Sam,” Dean clarified. “If you’re in danger.”

Sam bit his lip. “Yeah,” he lied. But in his own mind, he rephrased, _“if Dean’s in danger.”_


	8. dendrites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I mentioned in Ch 5 that Sam actually chose to go with Dean instead of trying to hitchhike to California in Scarecrow, since Sam could read Dean’s mind and see his reasonings and insecurities. As a result—Sam has not met Meg.

“I wish we had more to go on.”

“You and me both.” Dean rolled his beer bottle between his hands, screwing up his mouth. “It feels like we’re missing a huge piece, but there’s no way to find it.”

Sam’s lips also twisted in commiserating frustration. “I mean, we’ve got the signs for someone summoning the daevas. But who?”

“And what does it have to do with Lawrence,” Dean added darkly. For a while, they let the loud noises of the bar drown out any conversation. Dean threw a look at Sam, noting the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Ever since Sam had sworn to not use his telepathy, most of his energy was pushed into his shielding techniques; Dean had noticed a drop in Sam’s hunting skills as a result. He was more than willing to pick up the slack, but he didn’t like how tired Sam was all the time.

Both of them sighed heavily in sync, and Dean couldn’t help but grin a little. “We’ll figure it out, Sammy. For now, have a good night out on the town?”

Predictably, Sam’s eyes rolled. “And get caught by shadow demons with our pants down? I don’t think so.”

“Ruin my fun, Sammy,” Dean pretended to whine, even though both of them knew it was an act. It was an unspoken rule that they wouldn’t mess around on serious cases, of which this one was.

“Hey boys. Haven’t seen you two around.” A little blonde sauntered up, and Dean couldn’t hide his smirk. Obviously it couldn’t go anywhere, but that didn’t rule out having a little fun.

“Didn’t realize that Chicago was the kind of place where you recognize regulars,” Sam replied to her drily.

“You’d be surprised.” The girl hoisted herself onto a bar stool. “Get a girl a drink?”

“Sorry, we were just leaving,” Sam cut her off. “Another time.” Dean tried to scowl at him, but was nudged away by his stick-in-the-mud brother. Had Sam still been using his telepathy, he would’ve heard the copious amounts of bad names Dean was calling him.

As it was, he saved it for outside the bar.

“Dude! Really? C’mon, lame. As usual.”

“Case, remember? Case. Plus, she gave me a weird vibe.”

Dean paused. “Weird vibe as in psychic powers weird vibe?”

Sam shrugged, looking more off his game than had become the norm. “I guess. She just . . . she got under my skin.”

“Enough that she could be a suspect?” Dean tried.

Sam appeared torn. “Maybe? I dunno, maybe the case is going to my head, with Lawrence and everything. It feels tied to us, somehow.”

“Sooo . . . maybe you should read her,” Dean suggested slowly.

“No,” Sam immediately bit out. “I’m not using my powers. I told you, Dean, it’s stealing without their knowledge and I’m practically raping them.”

“Yeah yeah, okay, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dean ignored how Sam mouthed ‘panties in a twist’ with an incredulous expression and instead turned towards the Impala.

“Boys, wait up!”

Dean turned to incredulously look at the blonde girl. “Seriously lady, not tonight.”

“Sam and Dean, right?”

In an instant, both of them were on high alert; Dean drew his gun, Sam his knife.

“How do you know us?” Dean asked tightly.

“You Winchesters have made a name for yourself in the hunting community. You’ve done some good work.”

From the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam’s shoulders relax slightly.

Dean spoke up. “That right? You a hunter or do you just know about it, sweetheart?”

“Lost my little sister from a demon. After that—“ the girl shrugged. “Well, at this point, it’s not about revenge, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

Dean’s stiffness gave a little at the girl’s description of her sister. “What’s your name?”

“Meg. Care for that drink now?”

Dean exchanged a glance with his brother, and saw the curiosity there.

“We’re in.”

* * *

“Dean.”

He groaned and tried to respond, but his tongue was thick in his mouth.

“Dean, wake up! Dean, now!”

Sam’s voice was only a hiss, but Dean wasn’t wired to ignore the desperate tone of his little brother. With a herculean effort, he managed to open his eyes.

“S’mmy?” he slurred. “What happened?”

“Meg. I think she drugged us,” Sam whispered.

Dean managed to look around, and caught sight of Meg hunched over a strange looking altar. “So she’s the one summoning the demons,” he surmised.

“No, duh.” Sam looked distressed. “Sorry I didn’t see it coming.”

“We both agreed about your thingie,” Dean murmured, keeping an eye on Meg while he talked. “We’ll get out of this, Sammy.”

“I can’t . . . I tried reading her while you were out. I couldn’t, it was . . . it felt wrong.”

“That’s okay, Sammy.” Dean began maneuvering the razor blade in the sleeve of his jacket, edging it out with his fingertips.

“Boys, nice to see you awake.” Meg strode over to the two of them.

“You don’t want to do this,” Sam said, ever the attempted pacifist.

“Oh, I’m certain I do. We’ll just wait here for dear old dad, and you two kittens will stay put, okay?”

Dean and Sam simultaneously sucked in startled breaths. “A trap,” Sam whispered.

“Geniuses, the two of you.” Meg turned back to her altar, and Sam nodded to Dean. In a coordination they could be proud of, they rose in attack, Sam heading for the altar, Dean for Meg. He managed to grab her, long enough for Sam to ruin the altar and turn the daeva loose.

Meg screamed in fury, and Dean was suddenly thrown backwards, as was she.

Only she went through the window.

Dean and Sam looked down in shock. “We have to go,” Dean finally choked out.

Sam was in worse shape than him—from the fuzzy memories Dean had pre-drugging, Sam had really been connecting with Meg, and she had probably gone after him first—but Dean managed to get them back to the motel without any trouble.

“Our . . . our fingerprints will be there,” Sam mumbled.

“Yeah, well, we’ll be days away,” Dean promised recklessly. “Let’s get our stuff and run.”

He made to open the door, but Sam threw an arm across his chest. “There’s someone in there,” he hissed.

Dean swore under his breath. Lifting three fingers, he counted down and they burst in, guns raised.

And froze.

“Dad?” Dean whispered. Beside him, Sam had become a statue.

“Hey boys.” John looked tired, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered. Dean strode forward and embraced him, the tension of months dropping off like it hadn’t existed.

“You doin’ okay, Dean?”

“Yessir.” Dean stepped back, inadvertently glancing at Sam.

John half-stepped towards Sam, but to Dean’s surprise, Sam didn’t step forward to greet him in the same way.

“Sam. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.”

Dean waited on tenterhooks.

“I heard about your girl. I’m sorry.”

Sam still hadn’t moved a muscle. “Thank you.”

The formality set Dean’s teeth on edge. It was about time he stepped in. “Dad, what are you doing here?” He threw a glance at Sam. Was he reading their father? Sam’s reasons for not using his powers involved loss of privacy and other kinds of moral issues. Figured that Sam’s high-blown ideals would slip whenever it suited him.

“Well, we both know that the victims were chosen for a reason. I was just more subtle than the two of you.”

“Where have you been this whole time?” Dean asked.

John hesitated.

“Wait,” Sam said, too loudly for how delicate the conversation seemed. “I think—“

Dean went flying, fiery lines of pain across his forehead. He saw Sam get hit as well, spinning to the ground with wicked gashes on his cheek. Their father was also hit, thrown against the wall. It figured, that as soon as they finally had found him, they were all going to die. Just the Winchester luck.

“Close your eyes!”

There was a bright flare, and the next thing Dean knew, Sam was hoisting him to his feet and dragging him out to the car.

“We have to split up.”

Dean’s head went up in shock, as did Sam’s. “Dad? Why?”

“It’s not safe. This is bigger than us, Dean.”

“But Dad—“

“Dean, it’s fine. We need to get out of here,” Sam agreed unexpectedly.

“Sam—“

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll find you, son, I promise,” Dad said quickly.

And then he was gone.

* * *

If he gripped the steering wheel any harder, he might bend it. Opening his mouth, Dean could only shut it again as he lost his courage. It was Sam who finally broke the silence.

“So we found Dad,” he said dully.

Dean gritted his teeth. “And you read him.”

“No.”

A disbelieving laugh shoved its way from Dean’s throat without his permission. “Sorry, what?”

“I didn’t. Every part of me wanted to, but I didn’t, okay? Now pull over so I can take care of the cuts on your face.”

Silently, Dean pulled the Impala over, holding up a flashlight and shining it in Sam’s face instead. “Sam, answer me this. If you didn’t read him, then why didn’t you . . . act like he was your father? We’ve been searching for him this whole time and you acted like—“

“He was scared,” Sam blurted out. “He was terrified, and I could sense it from the moment we stepped into the room.”

“Well, yeah, Sammy, it was a trap and he knew we were in danger,” Dean rationalized. He eyed Sam’s cheek. The cuts weren’t deep enough to demand stitches, but definitely some careful patching up if they wanted to avoid scarring.

“He wasn’t scared of the demons, Dean,” Sam said vaguely. “It was something else.”

“Big whoop. You could’ve at least hugged the man,” Dean said tersely.

Sam swallowed, eyes darting away. “The last time I saw him, Dad told me I could never come back. And that was the last . . . He’s always loved you best, and I didn’t know—“

“Sammy,” Dean interjected softly. “You know that’s not true.”

Sam’s laugh was half a broken sob. “Isn’t it, though?”

“Hey, hey.” Their argument forgotten, Dean reached for Sam, carefully avoiding the cuts on his cheek. “Sammy, Dad loves you. I promise. And even if you end up reading him and find out something’s screwed up, I swear, I’ll be here.”

Dean could tell Sam was valiantly struggling from breaking down, and chose instead to focus on the physical wounds, rather than the emotional. That, at least, he could fix. “Now, hold still.”

“Dean—“

“Shut up, bitch.”

There was a long pause, but finally the response came: “Jerk.”


	9. action potential

Something was . . . off. That was a common feeling, working jobs as they did, but that didn’t mean Sam liked it. The instant they had driven into Fitchburg, Sam had nearly been overcome by the cloying sense of fear—he slammed his shields up as fast as he possibly could. No more powers. They had said so. Still, as Dean insisted there was a case, Sam wasn’t in the mood to argue about that anymore.

“You, uh, going to get the local gossip?” he asked as they pulled up across from a cafe.

“Yeah, and some coffee.” Dean levered himself out of the Impala, tapping the roof to get Sam’s attention. “Keep an eye on the car?”

Sam nodded. “Sure thing.”

He watched his brother depart, and focused very hard on not reading him. In some ways, it seemed that his telepathy had already permeated every part of his being; just another reason it was far too dangerous. Sam shored up his walls once again, wincing at the subsequent bolt of pain. He took a quick glance at the cafe—no Dean. Dry swallowing a couple pills, Sam focused on looking nonchalant in observing the townspeople as Dean re-emerged.

“What’s so interesting about that playground?” Dean bumped up next to him, handing him his coffee.

Sam hadn’t intended to stare at the playground, but now that he was thinking about it— “What time is it?”

“I dunno, why?” Dean was giving one of his searching looks that meant he wasn’t sure if Sam was using his telepathy or not.

“Because school should be out. And—“ Sam gestured and let the empty playground speak for itself.

“Looks a bit suspicious, Sammy,” Dean murmured. He grinned. “Wait here and I’ll go speak to that mom. Ten bucks says we’ll have a case.”

Sam was going to lose those ten bucks, but he acquiesced with a smirk anyway.

* * *

Sam gestured Dean aside, mouthing ‘one second’ to the motel manager, since Dean prepared to give her a lift.

“Dean, what’s going on?” he murmured. “You’ve been weird this whole time, and I want to know.”

“Not now, Sam. Go do some research.”

“Dad sent us here. And you know why,” Sam stated, hoping to finally draw whatever backstory was going on here out in the open. He had been keeping his shields high, but even so he could tell how off-kilter his brother was.

Out of Dean’s sight, he began rummaging for his pills in his back pocket.

“Sam, let it go.”

“No, Dean.” Sam forgot about the pills and grabbed his brother’s arm—rougher than he meant to—swinging him around. “You tell me what’s going on or—“

“Or you’ll just steal it from my head?” Dean accused him.

Sam flinched and turned away.

“Sammy, I didn’t—“

“Dean, you should take her to the peds ward and keep an eye on the kids. See if it’s any of the providers doing the life-sucking. I’ll go to the library.”

“Look, Sam . . .“

“See you later, Dean.” Sam strode off to the Impala. As soon as he was out of his brother’s sight, he pulled out the pill bottle and shook out a couple. The headaches never seemed to lessen, and he knew that searching small print for names and faces wouldn’t help. He had a job to do, though, and nothing would stop him from doing it.

* * *

“So, the doctor,” Sam said, seated across from Dean in a strange stand-off. “Can we take him out?”

“Sam,” Dean murmured after a pause, “earlier, what I said . . . that was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam replied stiffly. “So how do we figure out the location of this witch creature?”

“Well, I was thinking . . . maybe we should use your telepathy.”

Tension coiled along Sam’s shoulders, and he fought the urge to lash out. “No, Dean. We’ve talked about this. No more powers.”

Dean was the one grabbing Sam’s arm now. “And we’ve had good reasons. But Sam, I mean, even if they are from some evil power, you don’t use them for evil. And since when does privacy trump saving lives?”

It would be so easy to give in. It was tempting—being able to know without a doubt what Dean was thinking about him, what others were planning, to lose the ever-constant migraine from keeping his shields fully in place . . .

“What’s stopping you, Sammy?”

The childhood nickname that Sam had initially protested was what loosened his tongue. “I know too much,” he whispered. “When I can hear everyone it’s . . . Dean, it’s power that no one should wield.”

“Well, I hate to sound like an overused cliche, but that’s probably why you can use the power. You’re not the kind of guy to be corrupted or something. And if things start going south, I’m here to stop you.”

Sam swallowed. “Well, I’ll get right on stealing information out of people’s heads,” he said bitterly.

“Sammy . . .”

Sam blew out a breath. He had to get over himself if their partnership was going to work. “I’m sorry, Dean. Didn’t mean to bite your head off. The only other option would be . . . well, we don’t have any other options, huh?” His attempted grin wasn’t received well, and Dean’s face stayed serious.

“Sam, look, you’re probably right. Chances are that your telepathy won’t even work on the shtriga.”

He closed his eyes. “We don’t have options anymore, Dean.”

“You want to know what happened?” his brother asked suddenly. “Then look.”

Sam flinched back. “Dean, I haven’t—“

“I know you haven’t. I’m telling you to look.” Dean’s face was heavy with remembrance. Sam reached out, barely touching his forehead.

“I haven’t been using it. It might . . . it might hurt a little,” he told him softly. “I’ll try to be quick.”

Opening Dean’s mind to Sam’s was like unstopping a pressurized bottle. Too much wanted to rush in, and Sam had to focus on control. Slowly, he found himself enveloped in Dean’s memories—oddly colored and misty like all memories seemed to be—focusing on the story of the shtriga.

“Dean,” he murmured, even as he watched. “You were just a kid, it wasn’t your fault.” He felt Dean’s horror at seeing the shtriga and shuddered. “Dad used . . . oh.” He sat back and stared at Dean with his own two eyes, seeing both the child and the man. “He used us as bait?” Sam asked, horrified.

Dean blinked. “What? No he didn’t.”

“But you . . . he was hunting the shtriga. He knew it was in town. And he left you with me alone.”

Open as Sam’s mind was, he could feel the terrible disbelief and shattering of their father’s image in Dean’s. In a rush, he tried to move on. “Okay, so we don’t know whether I can kill it. But I can at least try.”

He had caught his brother off guard, and Sam closed up his mind again, carefully as Dean floundered for some kind of argument against it. “Sam, that’s not—“

“I’ll follow him after he leaves work. I’ll try and get inside his head and figure out a way to defeat him,” Sam promised rashly.

“That’s . . . well, it’s a good plan, but idiotic,” Dean stammered out. “Why don’t we just find a kid to use as bait?”

Sam threw him a look. “Really, Dean? Let’s use our brains here.”

Dean flushed in humiliation. “Look, sorry if I’m not jumping on this plan that depends on a lot of different variables.”

“You mean a plan that depends on my telepathy,” Sam determined coolly. “It’s all right, Dean. We’ll get it. One way or another.”

* * *

Sam peered around the corner. “Okay, give me a second,” he whispered. The doctor was exiting the hospital, and Sam slowly unlocked his telepathy, directing it straight towards the shtriga.

The shtriga’s mind was . . . well, it was human. Sort of. Sam faltered as he came upon layers he had never encountered before. Time. Power. It was all embedded within a cunning and hunger for the tender young souls.

“Sammy?”

Sam felt the shtriga’s consciousness turn towards the soft sound of Dean’s voice, and choked on a surge of fear.

And then it was aware of them. Faster than any human could, it slammed into Dean, throwing him. Sam bleated Dean’s name in panic, but only succeeded in turning the shtriga on himself.

Its bony hands were around his neck, the doctor’s coat incongruently still in place.

Sam was still in its mind, but as it began to suck his soul from his body, he was yanked back into his own body. It felt like the shtriga was draining him of all his energy and self, and Sam went limp in its grasp.

* * *

The next thing he was aware of was Dean’s hands on his face, worriedly trying to wake him up.

“Dean?” he mumbled. “Wha— the shtriga?”

“Got it. It won’t be getting up anytime soon. You feeling okay?”

Sam grunted.

“We’ll get you some pain pills,” Dean promised.

Sam shook his head, rummaging through his pockets for his bottle. With a sigh of relief, he downed a couple and waited for the aching in his head to disappear.

“Sam, what are these?”

Sam cracked his eyes open to regard his brother. “Just for headaches.”

For some reason, Dean looked upset. “How long have you been using these?”

“A while,” Sam evaded.

“Since you stopped using your telepathy,” Dean guessed.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “We should get out of here, Dean.”

Dean snagged the bottle of pills and pocketed it. “No more. I don’t care, Sam, you use your telepathy. Keep limits, but don’t hurt yourself.”

“Fine.”

Dean levered him to his feet, and Sam caught sight of the shtriga, lying prone and shriveled. He bit his lip to avoid shuddering in an abysmally late sense of horror.

“Okay buddy, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“This is a conversation that never needs to happen.”

Sam angled his body towards Dean. “I think it does.”

“Yes, let’s cry together about our terrible childhood and then have a miraculous realization of our bond as brothers and hug and write poetry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. That’s all.” Sam brushed his bangs away from his eyes. “I know you’re going to dismiss it, but at least promise me you’ll think about it.”

“As long as you don’t bring it up again,” Dean muttered.

“Fine. And thank you.”

Dean paused. “For what?”

“For always taking care of me, even when I didn’t realize it,” Sam told him seriously.

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean rolled his eyes, but because Sam was now using his telepathy, he could feel the small flush of confused affection.

Sam hid a smile, but sent back a small pulse of his own feelings anyway.


	10. conduction

“Show me your hands.”

Sam sighed and turned. “Dean, no more. I promised.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean eyed him suspiciously, the rain making it even more dangerous for him to look away from the road for so long. “You’re letting yourself listen?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam replied patiently. “No more pills, lightly using my telepathy. Promise.”

Dean scowled but nodded. Sam turned back to the journal. Ever since Dean had found Sam popping pills due to the awful migraines from reigning in his telepathy, he had been checking frequently. Dean could tell his little brother was getting fed up with his obsessive attention, but, well, Sam would just have to deal with it.

“So, Elkins,” Sam prompted. Dean obligingly turned his eyes back on the road while Sam skimmed through their father’s journal once more, since Sam was obviously not in the mood to discuss his telepathy. “Did we ever meet him?”

“I don’t think so.”

Sam fiddled with the journal before snapping it shut. “You, uh, want me to look?”

Dean glanced at him sharply. “That’s okay, Sam,” he said smoothly enough, trying to press down the slight bubble of discomfort at the thought of Sam rummaging through memories he couldn’t even recall.

“Should we try to call Dad about this?”

“He’ll contact us when he’s ready,” Dean said decisively.

“If he does find us, which, since he knows this guy, there’s a good chance he will, should I . . . should we tell him?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean reached out and shut off his music, the hiss of the tires on wet road and pattering on the windshield a brief respite from the guitar riffs. “I think we should, Sammy. He should know about it. He might even have some answers.”

“Sure,” Sam mumbled, staring out of his own rain-stained window. “Okay.”

“Sam . . .” Dean tried to placate him.

“No, I get it,” he said firmly. “He has to know.”

“Glad we’re agreed.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Dean swallowed, carefully blanking his mind of worry. Everything would be fine.

* * *

“So we were right,” Sam murmured.

Dean looked up from where he was examining Elkins’s documents. “What?”

“Boys.”

Dean caught Sam’s knowing look before they were both staring at their father. “What a surprise,” Sam said drily.

John looked awkward, rather than intimidating. “I understand you two found Elkins’s journal.”

“Yes sir,” Dean automatically said. He listened closely as his father outlined his relationship to Elkins before—

“Vampires?” Sam blurted out.

Dean saw the flash of fear in his father’s face before they both turned to face Sam.

“Sam—” Dean started, but he was cut off by John.

“How did you know that?”

Sam swallowed. “I—I can read people’s minds.”

Dean looked at John, and felt a twinge of unease at the complete lack of reaction on his father’s face.

“What?” John asked aloud, flatly.

Sam looked startlingly uncertain, an expression Dean had rarely seen on his face when hunting with him—it was like going back to their childhood all over again, when Sam desperately wanted to stay in town for longer than a month, and was trying to convince their dad could he _please_ just stay, he was going to join the soccer team and _everything_ —

Dean had always hated being caught in those disagreements, torn between obeying their father and making Sam happy.

“It showed up right before Jess . . . before Jessica died. I’ve been able to hear people’s thoughts,” Sam told their dad hesitantly.

John was silent.

Dean spoke up. “Dad, we can deal with this later. Right now, tell us what you know. Vampires?”

He could practically feel Sam’s discontent blaring loud and clear from next to him, but ignored it in favor of focusing on the fact that, as broken as they were, the Winchesters were together. Working a case. A family again. And that was all Dean had ever wanted.

* * *

“Alright. Get it out now.” Dean propped his feet up on the dash and looked expectantly at his brother, for once driving the car.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said stiffly.

“You’re boiling mad. I may not be the telepath, but I can practically hear all of those angry ten dollar words. C’mon, use ‘em now or you’ll say them to dad and regret it.”

“Maybe they are words he needs to hear,” Sam muttered.

“And maybe you two will have another enormous fight. Dude, we’re on a case. Get it out here.”

Sam’s hands were tight on the Impala’s wheel. “It . . . it just galls me that he can treat us like we’re kids again. I mean, we’re hunters, Dean. And he keeps everything a secret, just expecting us to fall into line like good little soldiers. Screw that,” Sam snarled, “I’m done playing his games.”

Dean eyed the way Sam was driving and wished he was behind the wheel instead. “You done?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Sam muttered, but he sounded sullen rather than furious. “I just . . . how can you stand it, Dean? The way he treats you, us—“

“Cuz it’s just the way things are, and I’m okay with that. As long as we’re fighting together,” Dean told him firmly.

Sam’s glance was marshmallow-y in its sappiness. Dean hated marshmallows. “Dean, I’m sorry you get stuck between us.”

“Well,” Dean shifted on the seat—the passenger side was trying to decide if it liked him rather than Sam—“Someone has to make sure you two idiots don’t kill each other.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah.” His next glance was a bit too keen for Dean’s taste. “I didn’t read him.”

“Really?” Dean’s eyebrows went as high as they could go.

“I wanted to. But privacy, you know. It is important, no matter what’s going on. I did . . . I caught a few surface thoughts, of course.”

“Yeah?” Dean prompted.

“When he learned about my telepathy . . . he wasn’t surprised.” Sam refused to look over at him, keeping his eyes on the road. Dean desperately to know what his brother was thinking, but, well, he wasn’t the one with special powers.

“Well, we did say that characters like Max might have made a ripple in the hunting community. Maybe that’s it,” Dean suggested.

“Maybe,” Sam echoed. “Maybe.”

“Look, don’t go biting his head off, okay? We’ll get through this case following his lead and then we’ll confront him about this stuff.”

“We,” Sam murmured. Dean shifted uncomfortably at the fond way his brother looked at him, and wondered if Sam was reading him.

Sam apparently picked up that thought. “I don’t need to read you, dude, your face is an open book.”

“Shut up, no it isn’t,” Dean protested.

“It totally is.” The next look Sam through him was a playful grin, and Dean settled down, satisfied. Sam wouldn’t go off the rails. Yet.

* * *

For a brief moment, all Dean could see was red.

The hunt had been going pretty well. They had gotten their hands on the colt in a last-minute stand-off with the vampires, and Dean had been high on the adrenaline, killing them off in a fierce battle that—despite their opponents’ vampiric strength and speed—they were winning.

And then he had turned to see the lead vamp with his hand around Sam’s oh-so-vulnerable throat.

“Sammy!” he roared.

 _“It’ll be fine, Dean,”_ Sam said in his head. _“Just use the colt.”_

 _“I’ll shoot you, Sammy,”_ Dean projected angrily back.

_“I’ll go limp in three seconds. Be ready.”_

_“Wait, Sam!”_

_“One.”_

_“Crap.”_

_“Two.”_

_“I swear if I shoot you, I will dye your—“_

_“Three.”_

Sam slumped in the grasp of the vampire, allowing the grip on his neck to go far too tight. Simultaneously, Dean dove, snatching up the colt, aiming, and firing.

The bullet went straight through the middle of the vampire’s forehead, flashing strange yellow lights and a kind of glow before the vampire collapsed.

“Sam!”

Dean pried the dead vampire’s fingers off of his brother’s neck, ignoring their father as he stumbled over to pick up the colt.

“Close one,” Sam rasped.

“Yeah, moron, close to getting yourself killed.”

"The colt works,” Dad said softly.

Dean spared him a glance. “Yeah. So?”

“We can win. We might have a shot at killing the demon.”

For the first time since they had seen their dad again, Dean felt a flare of their father’s fervor for the death of the thing that had killed his mother and Jessica.

He waited for Sam to speak up, but surprisingly, his little brother was silent.

“So what's the next step?” Dean asked.

Dad hesitated. “There have been signs. I was going to—“

“No, we,” Dean interrupted. “We’re in this now, Dad. There’s no way we’re sitting out of this.”

Once again, he waited for Sam to back him up.

Nothing.

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Dad said.

* * *

“You’re not excited?” Dean asked.

“Define excited, Dean,” Sam returned wryly after he finished scrubbing his wet hair with one of the flimsy motel towels. “I want this thing dead, but it’s not going to bring Jessica back. And it won’t keep our family together.”

Dean stiffened, throwing a sharp glance at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

Sam tapped the side of his head, a dark expression on his face. “I know you think that this will cement us as a family, Dean. But let’s be honest. It’s a suicide mission for Dad, and once I’ve gotten my revenge, what am I going to do? Magically stop disagreeing with Dad? Fall in love with hunting?”

A resentment was simmering in Dean, and he bit his lip to keep something ugly from coming out. “We’ll avenge Mom and Jessica. Isn’t that what you want?” he growled.

Sam sank onto his bed. “Yes. Every time I remember how much pain Jess was in as she died, I can’t even—“ Sam’s head dropped to stare at the floor. “But it isn’t going to end well. Dad’s unreliable, and I think you’ll get yourself hurt listening to him.”

Dean bristled. “What do you know? Dad and I were hunting for the years after you left, together. And we did better than we had ever done before.”

Sam’s head snapped up. “Oh yeah? Tell me about those nights you just kept drinking because you were so lonely, and the times Dad brushed you off when you only wanted to talk, and how he left you behind, and—”

“Stay out of my head!”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, Dean regretted them; it was too late, though, and Sam’s entire face had gone shuttered and still.

“Sammy, I didn’t—“

“You did. Goodnight, Dean.”

The next morning, Dad suggested that Sam ride with him, so they could talk. Sam went without protest, and Dean said nothing.

It was his first mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this fic is not kind to John. If you're a fan of his, you've been warned.


	11. threshold

Everything was . . . it was fuzzy, somehow. Sam tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

“Dee—“ he slurred.

A voice muttered a curse—was it Dean?—and Sam felt a strange prick on his neck.

“No,” he moaned, but it was too late, and everything slid away.

* * *

The ropes were good. Too good. Sam had been stripped of his outer shirt, his weapons, even the razor blades he kept sewn into the waistband of his jeans.

“Hello?” Sam tried, but everything was pitch black. The last thing he could remember was . . .

“You’re awake.”

Sam looked up, blinking at the sudden light. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

“”I think we both know that we’re not going to play games,” John said softly.

“Christo,” Sam spat out.

John crossed his arms. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Sam.”

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Sam looked down to see he was in the middle of a devil’s trap. “Dad?” he asked, voice trembling despite himself. “What are you doing?”

“It’s for your own good, Sammy,” John told him. He took a couple steps forward, and Sam flinched at the sight of the blade in his hand. “Your ability to read minds . . . you know it’s not right. You’re a freak.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat, as his own father expressed his worst fears. His voice was weak as he whispered once more, “Dad?”

“I’ll do everything I can to get rid of it, son,” John pronounced. He didn’t step into the devil’s trap, but still, Sam could see the real emotion. Maybe . . . well, maybe Dad was right. Tentatively, Sam reached out with his telepathy, only to find his reactions and readings slow and fuzzy from the drugs.

“We’ll try an exorcism first,” John unfolded a piece of paper. “And then we’ll see.”

Sam’s palms were sweaty, but he nodded anyway.

* * *

Sam could remember the hesitant way his father was talking to him as they had gotten into the truck together. John had asked about Jessica, and their conversation had eventually moved to Sam’s powers. Sam had promised he wasn’t using them without permission, and John had expressed gratitude for the respect of his privacy.

And then when Sam had bent down to rummage through his bag, he had caught a sudden surge of intention in his father’s thoughts, only to turn and have a needle slide into his neck.

At this point, Sam just wished he had read his father like he had wanted to in the first place.

The icy-cold holy water splashed over him once more, and Sam shuddered. His father’s voice droned in the background, long segments of latin text that were supposed to exorcise evil spirits.

“Where’s Dean?” Sam suddenly asked. His father’s intonations ground to a halt.

“Don’t worry about it,” he returned coolly. “It’s better you don’t know.”

Terror shot through Sam’s veins in a surge of adrenaline that allowed his head to clear. “Is he in trouble? Is he hurt?”

He could finally hear his father’s thoughts and confirm what John said. “No.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sam swallowed and added belatedly, “Dad.”

“You know why. You’re the reason they’re dead.”

Any thoughts Sam had of taking over John’s mind vanished. “What?” he choked out.

His father circled around to stand in front of him. “You honestly never thought of it? Both in your room, both in fire. This starts and ends with you, Sam. And one way or another, this will be the end of everything.” John held up three long and thick nails. “I’m afraid this next ritual will hurt. I’ll make sure there won’t be any permanent damage to you nerves or tendons though.”

Panic began to swamp Sam as his father approached, spreading one of Sam’s hands on the arm of the chair he was tied to.

“No, please,” he pleaded. His mind was too far gone to pinpoint John’s, as instead his range began expanding and encompassing far too many minds for him to comprehend.

John hammered the first nail through the back of his hand, and Sam screamed.

By the time John got to his feet, Sam had passed out.

* * *

“Are you going to kill me?” Sam croaked.

“Probably.” John was dispassionate, and Sam was almost in control to grab his mind, but not quite.

But the pseudo-crucifixion ritual had not worked. With blurred vision, Sam watched as John began mixing up another spell. Sam’s hand inadvertently twitched, sending a ripple of pain down his arm and causing his whole body to jerk, which only exacerbated the pain ten-fold.

“This will be over soon.” His father was standing in front of him.

Sam closed his eyes.

“Sammy?”

At the change in tone, Sam snapped his eyes open by sheer will. “Wha—“

“Sammy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t . . . Oh, let’s get you some help.”

“Dad?” Sam slurred. “What do you—“

His father was kneeling in front of him, hands hovering over the nails. “Should I pull these out?”

Sam swallowed roughly. “Christo,” he ground out.

There was no change, and he shivered in confusion, fighting the pain and dizziness. “Dad?” He blinked, suddenly noticing the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Daddy?”

A hand cupped his face, and Sam couldn’t help but lean into it. “Sammy.”

Sam let out an involuntary whimper.

Abruptly, his father laughed and stood, leaving Sam blinking in confusion. “It would be fun to keep up the pretense, but as your father said earlier, let’s not play games.”

“I don’t—“

John’s eyes flashed yellow, and Sam gasped.

“The whole time?”

“Oh no. Just came in at the end. See, I can’t have you actually dead, as hard as dear old dad might try.” The thing in his father’s body crouched in front of Sam, hands settling roughly on top of Sam’s and causing the nails to move. Sam whined deep in his throat, and John’s face smirked.

“What are you?” Sam panted.

“A demon, of course. You can call me Azazel.” The demon patted Sam’s cheek in some parody of affection. “You’ve had a rough time of it, Sam. I am very sorry for that. But now that you’ve seen the true depths to which you’ve been abandoned, I hope you’ll come join me, when the time is right.”

“I’ll never join you,” Sam growled. His growl changed to a keen as the demon’s face darkened and his grip went tighter on Sam’s wrists.

“Well. Maybe a little persuasion is in order.” Azazel stood and walked over to the table of supplies John had set up. “Let’s see what your father had planned, shall we?”

Sam ignored him and tried to focus on his telepathy. The demon’s mind had the same shape as his father’s, but the consistency was all wrong. Oily barriers forced Sam’s mind to slide away.

“Oh, I like this one. Branding. Did you know he was going to brand you like a mindless animal?”

Sam could only watch as the demon started a fire with a flick of his hand and lowered the metal into the flames.

The brand was intricate, with Hebrew-looking symbols around the edge, a pentangle in the middle.

Somehow, the designs on it didn’t matter. Just the surface area.

* * *

“Your powers are very well developed. I am impressed, Sam Winchester.”

Sam managed to grunt in response. He noticed that he was cold, and shaking a little. That wasn’t good, he told himself. That was shock.

“What I can’t understand is why? Why hold back. You have nothing left in your life, and you would still refuse to join me.”

Sam slowly lifted his head off of his chest and locked his eyes onto the demon’s yellow ones. “Because you’re evil. And we’ll send you to hell.”

The sudden glee in Azazel’s grin made Sam’s stomach drop. “Oh, _we_. Dear ol’ Dean. I nearly forgot. That brother you love so much.”

Sam wanted to plead at Azazel to leave Dean alone, but sensed that might only spur the demon to go after Dean even more.

“What will he think of this?” Azazel asked softly.

Sam forced himself to focus. “Think of what?” he queried dazedly.

“We can think of this as an experiment,” the demon mused. “Oh, yes. I like the sound of that.”

Through blurred eyes, Sam watched the figure of his father—not his father, not really, right?—pull out a cell phone.

The faint ringing noise didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t the demon not want Dean to come? Dean would kick his—

“And now, my best trick yet. I’ll be seeing you, kid.” Azazel grinned at Sam one more time, and then black smoke poured out of John’s throat.

Sam watched, helpless, as his father collapsed. Was he dead? Was the plan to convince Dean that Sam had killed John? But then why was he still tied up?

A long time passed before John stirred, coughing.

Sam tried to call him, but couldn’t quite get the word ‘dad’ out of his mouth. “Hey,” he awkwardly whispered. “You okay?”

“Sam?”

Sam shivered, the pain spiking once again before going back down into a manageable level. “What do you remember?”

John stared at Sam. “Enough,” he said softly.

“Oh.” Sam swallowed. “Okay.”

“Sam!”

It was a voice Sam hadn’t expected to hear, and he jerked in his bonds, sending another pulse of agony through his nail-ridden hands and feet. “Dean,” he croaked.

“Sammy!” Dean roared, breaking down the door as he did so. Sam latched onto his mind without another thought, taking care to block his pain from reaching Dean, but allowing his brother’s soul and thoughts to rush into his own mind, distracting him from the pain.

Dean was pointing the colt at their father.

“Sam?”

“I was possessed, Dean,” John said. “It left, I don’t know why.”

Dean looked to Sam for confirmation. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the overwhelming need of his brother to believe his Dad and have his family remain strong.

“Yeah,” he lied. “That’s what happened.”

Dean lowered the gun and rushed to kneel in front of Sam. “Dude,” he breathed. “This is why you ride with me, okay?”

Sam cracked an eye open. “And you would rather have you be the one who did this?”

Dean’s skin went white under his freckles, and his eyes darted to Sam’s hands. “This is gonna hurt.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sam murmured. Briefly, he tilted his head forward to rest on Dean’s temple. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, little brother,” Dean promised him.

That was all Sam needed to hear, and he let his consciousness slip away to rest in the hidden corners of Dean’s mind and the memories of brief times of happiness. Dean would take care of him.


	12. membranes

Dean turned his music up as loud as it could go. Whenever he fought with Sammy, there was an itch under his skin that would not go away, and he hated it. Any distraction would be a welcome one.

Dad’s truck swerved for a moment; Dean raised an eyebrow. A couple seconds later, and his phone rang.

“You two get into a fight?” he joked.

His Dad snorted. “Thought I saw a deer. Hey, listen, Sam and I are going to pull off here to grab some silver—I’m getting low.”

“Okay, right behind you.”

“No. You head on to Salvation, grab us a motel room and catch up on the local gossip. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Sure.” Dean thought about telling his Dad to give the phone to Sam, but he wasn’t fast enough before the phone hung up.

“Let him stew, and we’ll hash it out when we get there,” Dean muttered to himself, a little discomfited. He passed Dad’s truck, attempting to glance through the windows, but the truck’s were tinted too dark.

Dean had never realized how empty the Impala was without Sam.

* * *

For the tenth time in the hour, Dean glanced at the clock. His family should have arrived long ago, but instead they were absent and there was a restlessness under Dean’s skin that meant nothing good.

“Dad, call back, please.” Dean snapped his phone shut before opening it again and dialing Sam’s number. “Sammy, pick up, or I swear I’ll cut off all your hair.” His pacing was probably wearing a hole into the carpet, but Dean was beyond caring.

By the time another hour had passed, Dean had attempted to track the GPS on Sam’s phone (no signal found) called Bobby (he knew nothing) and punched a hole in the wall (his hand hurt).

The worst part was that Dean could not stop thinking that maybe it had been by choice. Maybe Sam and Dad had left him to go off on their revenge.

And Dean hated being left behind.

* * *

Dean's knees were trembling as he kicked down the door, roaring his brother’s name. As soon as he entered the room, he saw what he had dreaded seeing—Sam, tied up in a chair, bloody and broken-looking. John was getting up—outside of the devil’s trap?—and Dean trained his gun onto him.

Sam’s telepathy rushed into Dean’s consciousness, and he could have cried in relief at the incontrovertible proof that his brother was alive, rather than a mysterious phone call. He vaguely heard John say something about possession, but only looked to his brother for his affirmation of John’s statement.

When he received Sam’s confirmation, something in Dean loosened in relief, and he allowed himself to drop the gun and sprint to Sam’s side.

“Dude, this is why you ride with me,” he tried to joke.

Sam’s eyes were empty. “And you would rather have you be the one who did this?”

Dean blanched and focused on getting Sam taken care of. “This is gonna hurt.”

Instead of responding, Sam tilted his head down to touch Dean’s. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

Dean wanted to joke in return, but his throat had become tight and uncooperative.

“Don’t leave me,” Sam whispered, and Dean felt his heart breaking.

“I won’t, little brother,” he promised with every fiber of his being, and Sam sighed in relief. Dean watched him worriedly as he closed his eyes, but figured that it was his turn to take care of things.

“Dad, go get the first aid,” he demanded. The nails were not embedded deeply into the wood of the chair, and he pried them out carefully, leaving them within Sam’s hands until he had something to stem any blood flow. He assessed the rest of Sam’s vitals, checking his pulse and temperature hastily.

Then Dean caught sight of Sam’s shoulder. His _branded_ shoulder.

He couldn’t help but lean over to the side and vomit.

Spitting and swearing under his breath, Dean left the branded shoulder alone. There was nothing he could do with the supplies he had.

The wounded hands and feet? That he could help.

“Shh, shh.” In one smooth motion he pulled a nail from Sam’s hand, prompting a whimper from his still-unconscious brother. With the supplies John gave him, Dean treated it before going to the next.

By the time Dean had reached Sam’s feet, Sam was awake from the pain and trying to bite back tears.

“It’s okay, Sammy, one more, I promise, and—“ Dean pulled the last one free.

Sam folded himself in half, gasping from the pain.

Their dad finally spoke up. “Dean, we need to get out of here.”

“Help me carry him,” Dean ordered. “And then drive us to Bobby’s.”

They got Sam into the back, and Dean stayed with him, carefully putting Sam’s feet in his lap and wedging his jacket in the corner for Sam’s head.

“Dean?”

“Everything’s okay,” Dean soothed. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

He received a pulse of relief and affection from Sam’s mind that went a long way in reassuring him. They would be okay.

* * *

The next three days were a hailstorm of worry and sickness and pain as one of Sam’s palms became infected and fever set in. Dean could swear he sometimes got phantom impressions of a throbbing shoulder and pulsing hands and feet, but it always disappeared as soon as there was a hint of any comprehension in Sam’s glassy eyes.

Dean never left Sam’s bedside.

It was only on the fourth day that Sam really woke up.

“Dean?”

Dean jerked himself out of his slight doze. “Sammy, you with me?”

Sam’s eyes wandered. “Where are we?”

“Bobby Singer’s. You remember him, right?”

Sam nodded slightly, wincing and immediately looking to his shoulder.

“Don’t touch,” Dean warned, “it’s pretty inflamed.

Sam’s drifting gaze met his. “You’re still here.”

Dean hated that there was a question in Sam’s voice. “Of course, bitch, where else would I be?”

Sam’s hand twitched like it wanted to reach out for Dean’s, but the nail-hole stopped that. Dean muttered something deprecating about girls, but took Sam’s wrist in his own grip anyway.

Sam’s tightly wound muscles began to relax, and Dean brushed a hand over his brother’s forehead, as Sam began to drift back off to sleep. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Sammy. You’ll see.”

* * *

“So, we have found anti-possession charms.”

Dean kept most of his attention on Sam, though Bobby and John were the ones in the doorway with the charms. His brother was wound tight. “Yeah?” he prompted absently.

“Wear them, and the demon can’t get in,” Bobby said. Dean reached out a hand, and two charms were dropped into his palm.

John stepped forward. Dean didn’t like the way Sam flinched.

“We’ve also agreed that moving as soon as possible will be best.”

Dean took another look at his brother. “Not for at least two more days.”

“Dean,” Sam murmured, “I can . . .”

“Two more days. That’s my condition.”

Sam subsided, shooting Dean a hurt glare that he pretended not to see.

“We also need to talk about the demon,” John announced. Now Dean was the one throwing a glare, this time at his father.

“Dad, that can wait,” he protested.

“No, Dean. It really can’t.”

“Sam’s still—“

“It had yellow eyes.”

Both of them fell silent at Sam’s quiet pronouncement.

“It was talking about the special children. It wants them, something about their abilities.” Sam’s voice was flat as he recited. “It was proud of my progress with my telepathy.”

The silence was profound, until Bobby huffed a laugh. “You Winchesters can’t help but find the deepest pile of crap and dive right into it, can you?”

“Lovely imagery,” Dean muttered wryly.

“I’ll get everything ready to go,” John said, and retreated without saying another word. Bobby lingered, tilting his head at Dean.

“Need anything?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

The instant Bobby was gone, Sam was sitting up. “Dean, we should get out of here now. C’mon, I’m fine.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Can you walk?”

Sam swung his legs out of the bed and stood before Dean could stop him. He crumpled with a soft cry; Dean was barely fast enough to catch him.

“Darn it, Sam. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. The demon got the better of us, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re gonna be fine.”

Dean caught a glimpse of unadulterated fear in his brother’s eyes before Sam covered it up. “Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

* * *

“How ya doin’, Sammy?” Five hours in the car until they finally stopped for the night, and Sam was looking a little pale.

“I told you I’m fine, Dean.”

“Dean, stop bugging your brother.”

Dean saw Sam flinch at John’s voice and sighed. “Dude, it wasn’t Dad. Dad, c’mon, talk to him.”

Sam shrank even more. “I’m sorry. I know.”

John’s eyes were thoughtful. “Dean, why don’t you give us some space, huh? Sam and I can have a talk. Grab us dinner?”

“I can do that,” Dean said, relieved, but he couldn’t help but hesitate as he reached the motel door. He hadn’t been separated from Sam since the episode with the demon.

“Go on, Dean,” John commanded.

Dean projected to his subdued little brother. _“You gonna be okay?”_

There was something subdued about Sam’s telepathic reply. _“Yeah. One way or another.”_

Dean left, feeling off-kilter. This would be the fastest food run in the history of mankind, if he had his way.


	13. soma

The door shutting behind Dean sounded like a death-knell.

Then again, maybe Sam was being melodramatic, as Dean often accused him of being.

John stood, and Sam flinched.

“You know what we have to talk about.”

“Yes,” Sam responded quietly. He clutched his anti-possession charm tightly in his palm, breathing deeply.

“You’re the reason the demon came after us. The reason it is still pursuing us.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Will you do it yourself?”

Sam opened his eyes to see his father offering him a knife. Swallowing thickly, he shook his head. “I can’t . . . Dean.”

“What about him?” John asked, almost patiently.

“It would kill him. I have to . . . I have to tell him first.”

“Sam, you know he won’t allow it. It has to be this way.”

“I—“ Sam stuttered, “—I don’t want to die. The demon, it didn’t say I would be evil. It just said it wanted me to be. I have the choice. I can say no.”

“And after I’m dead? After Dean is dead?” John asked ruthlessly. “You know it will come after you until you give in. How many more have to die before you see the truth?”

Sam carefully let down his shields, focusing on John’s mind. He ignored the strains of aching revenge and focused on the decision-making. “You didn’t see everything,” he realized slowly. “You’re basing your decisions off of false information.”

“No. I’m basing my decision off of the fact that you are reading my mind without permission and using demonic powers to gain an advantage over others that will eventually corrupt you completely,” John told him coolly.

Sam snapped his mind shut.

“The demon told me that you killed someone named Max. And you were able to stop a whole group of people from even moving a muscle.”

“How did Azazel know—“

“Will you stop me with your telepathy? Because you could. I bet you could wipe my mind completely, make me your obedient slave, is that what you want?”

Sam pushed himself backwards on the bed as John took a step forward, ignoring the sparks of pain from his palms. “No, I swear, I won’t do that. Ever.”

John’s face was set, eyes alight with the fire of revenge. “I have always known something was wrong. I let you and Dean become too close, in your childhood. If I had known then what you would become, I would have taken care of it far earlier.”

Sam noticed his cheeks were wet, and swiped a hand across his eyes. “Don’t do this,” he begged. “We can still stop the demon.”

John shook his head, changing his grip on the knife from offering it to Sam to wielding it. “Goodbye, son.”

Sam kicked out, shouting in pain as his wounded foot collided with John’s hand. The knife spun across the room. John yelled, lunging after it and forcing Sam to bulldoze into him, sending them both to the motel room floor.

John’s heavier build made it easy for him to flip Sam so he was underneath, elbow digging under Sam’s ribs, and his hand immediately going for Sam’s branded shoulder—his current weak point.

Sam howled, writhing and shoving ineffectually at his father’s arm, only to have the other come and press against his throat. Sam gasped, clawing at the arm, but his father was immovable.

“Don’t fight this, Sam. It’s for the best.”

The room had started going black around the edges, when Sam dimly felt the one mind he would always recognize.

“What the—Sam!“

The pressure was lifted from his throat, and Sam spluttered, choking and wheezing as he tried to suck in precious oxygen. Instinctively, he pulled himself away from the two colliding bodies; Dean was shoving at John, yanking and throwing him away from Sam. Sam blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the two of them wrestling and fighting. In disbelief, Sam watched as Dean punched John viciously two times before kicking him down.

“You stay away from him!” Dean snarled. “You touch him again and I’ll kill you!”

“He’s evil,” John snapped. “It has to be done. Why have you been hunting all of your life? He’s the reason Mary’s dead! Or don’t you care about your mother’s death?”

At the question, Sam saw Dean hesitate.

And then Dean’s mind disappeared from Sam’s perception.

“Thanks for inviting me in, Dean,” he heard Dean say. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“ _Dean_ ,” he called out mentally, but a viscous barrier sent his words spinning away.

Dean stood, a strange fluidity in his movements. With a snap of his fingers, he threw Sam and John against the walls.

“I so love family fights. I mean, you leave yourselves wide open for possession, such fear and hate and rage and convenient yanking of rather important jewelry.” Eyes flashing yellow, Azazel forced Dean’s body to stoop and lift up his anti-possession charm. “Not that this really could have kept me out for long. Your puny devil’s trap didn’t, after all.” He tossed the metal aside.

“Dean—“ Sam choked out, and Azazel’s attention turned to him, a strange paternal smile on Dean’s face that looked all wrong.

“Sam, Sam. Brother loves you so. And you love him. Too much, I’m afraid. That makes him a liability. A bit of a problem factor. Do I kill him now, and have to deal with you being depressed? Or use him as leverage? These important problems we have.” Dean’s mouth turned up in a horrible smirk. “But first, I think we all know that one factor here is entirely unnecessary.”

In two steps, Azazel whirled and was in front of John. “Say goodbye to your daddy, boys.”

Sam yelled as Azazel used Dean’s hand to snap their father’s neck. There was an echo of a scream as Sam caught the edge of Dean’s mind.

“Now for the finale.” Azazel let John’s body fall to the floor with a sickening thud. “Sam, I’m afraid we just can’t let your brother live.”

“No, please.”

“I mean, I’m sure he wants to die anyway. He has a demon—well, part-demon—for a brother, he just killed his father . . . let’s be honest, Sam. It will put him out of his misery.” Sam could feel Azazel’s enjoyment in Sam’s utter despair and Dean’s shock and grief. Sam created a tenuous link between his and Dean’s, trying to push past the demon’s layers.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Sam promised recklessly. “Just don’t hurt Dean.”

Azazel’s smirk widened, and he sauntered closer to Sam. “Is that right, Sam?”

“Yes.” It was like a puzzle, and he was sifting through the mud in order to get to the pieces. Sam closed his eyes, swallowing.

Azazel’s hand dug into Sam’s inflamed shoulder, and he whimpered.

“Bow to me,” he whispered.”

Sam sank to his knees, prostrating himself before his older brother. Dean’s distress was a beacon. Laughing, Azazel suddenly yanked Sam to his feet and slammed him against the wall again.

“How does it feel to be helpless?” the demon wondered. “You must hate it. I can offer you so much more, Sam.”

“Never,” Sam snarled.

Azazel sighed. “They always resist at first. That’s all right though, Sam.”

“Dean, I’ll fix this,” Sam gasped out desperately. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“This is all rather pathetic,” Azazel sighed. “Brother dearest will have to go, since you’re being so uncooperative.” Azazel stooped to pick up John’s knife and caressed it. “What do you think? Across the throat?”

The pieces were falling into place.

“Dean, if you can hear me, whatever happens, know that you’re a jerk, okay?” _“I love you.”_

Azazel lifted the knife to Dean’s throat, and Sam—Sam _moved_. The knife went flying across the room. Azazel faltered, surprised; Sam pushed everything he had learned and developed from his telepathy into a surge that overwhelmed the demon.

“Dean, hold on,” Sam gasped.

Dean—the demon—was writhing—oily smoke, Sam thought vaguely—and he wound layers of his telepathy around it, keeping it from escaping back into the world as he blurted out the well-known phrases of their most powerful exorcism.

There was a hand in his, and Sam gripped it tightly, disregarding the surge of warm blood from the reopened wound in his palm.

“Almost, little brother,” Sam heard vaguely as he finished the exorcism. He could feel the demon screaming its displeasure as it began its descent into hell. Too tied up in its soul, Sam could feel himself being dragged along with it.

“Sam!” Warm hands grabbed Sam’s face. “My mind. Focus. I don’t know what’s happening, but stay with me, okay?”

Fire and brimstone and pain and anguish and—

Jessica stared at him. _“Sam? Why did I have to die?”_

Sam bit out a sob. “Jess, I’m so sorry.”

John looked at him sadly.

_“Sam, it’s all your fault.”_

He didn’t recognize her for a moment, but then . . . “Mom?”

_“I never should have had a second child.”_

“Sammy, come on. Don’t leave me, please.”

“Dean?” Sam slurred. “Dean?”

“That’s it. Don’t go towards the light. Or hellfire. Whatever.”

Sam opened his eyes blearily. “You’re alive?”

Dean’s wide eyes were full of terror and pain and—

Wait, Sam was reading Dean’s mind by accident. He tried to put up his barriers; instead, he set of a chain reaction of pain that left him shaking and whimpering. His telepathy was a raw open wound, and the more he tried to shut it down, the more he opened himself up.

“Sam!”

“I don't want her to die, she’s a little angel—why did he say that to me?—keshi wo bu xiang—this will be the end of—don’t you dare leave me again, I can’t—“

Sam tried to stem the nonsense words that were flowing from his mouth, but he couldn’t. He could feel Dean’s attempts to focus him, but nothing was helping. He tried to find himself, but he was gone.

John’s body was across the room, and Sam’s mind focused completely on John’s. It wasn’t there. It was a void.

“Sam, look at me. Please. Look at me.”

Sam dragged his gaze up to his brother, his walls barely holding up. “Dean,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean’s smile was watery. “We’ll get through this, Sam.”

On that promise, Sam allowed the voices to swamp his mind once more, and fell into the darkness.


	14. postsynaptic

Everything was . . . well, it was quiet. Very quiet.

Too friggin’ quiet.

Dean coughed slightly. “Sam? I know you might hate me right now. But I’d really appreciate it if you would wake up.”

His brother made no response.

Dean had cleaned away the blood crusted under his nose and eyes and ears. He had re-wrapped Sam’s open wounds. He had covered him up with a blanket.

In short, he had done everything he could, and it was worth nothing.

John’s body was in the corner, wrapped in several sheets. Dean refused to let himself even think of that, and what it meant.

So he focused on Sam.

Hours passed slowly, and Dean continued to keep vigil over Sam’s—no, not his body, just over Sam.

Sam’s breath caught slightly, and Dean woke himself up from a slight doze. “Sammy?” he murmured.

Sam’s eyes were moving under his eyelids, and Dean almost reached out before stopping himself. Chances were, Sam wouldn’t want anything to do with him, after what had happened.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was thin and reedy; weak.

“I’m here, Sam.” Once again, Dean had to stop himself from touching Sam.

Sam’s eyes slowly opened, the normally-clear hazel cloudy. “Dean, are you okay?”

“Am I—“ Dean choked, shoving his face into his hands for a moment to collect himself. “Sam, you . . . are you?”

Sam hummed, seeming to evaluate himself. “I suppose. Everything kind of hurts.”

“Want some pain killers?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s grounding,” he murmured. “Better to have the physical pain rather than the mental.”

Dean hated the sound of that.

“I know you do, but it’s just temporary. Gimme a bit to focus, it’ll be fine.” Sam didn’t seem to realize he was responding to Dean’s thoughts, rather than his actual words.

“Will it be fine?” The words slipped from Dean’s mouth unbidden, and he snapped his eyes away to stare at the window. The sun was rising. It was morning, apparently.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was so soft, he almost missed it. “It wasn’t you.”

A laugh burst out, short and bitter. “I let it in. I killed . . . I killed Dad.”

Sam levered himself up onto his elbows.

“Dean, hey, no.”

“I felt his neck snap,” Dean said hollowly. “I let it happen.”

“Hey!” A hand smacked Dean’s head. Wide-eyed, Dean stared at Sam, who was cradling his wounded hand with a child-like pout on his face. “Ouch.”

“You idiot! Let me see that.” Dean took Sam’s hand. Small spots of red were blooming in the gauze. “You made it start bleeding again.”

“You willing to listen, then?”

Dean glared weakly.

“There was nothing you could do to stop being possessed, Dean. I know it doesn’t feel like that, but you have to trust me. You do . . . you do trust me, right?”

Dean shot him a look. “Who’s the psychic here?”

Sam flushed. “Yeah. Um, for my part, I am sorry.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sorry for saving us? Yeah, nice one, you should really apologize.”

“I should have done the exorcism sooner. And John was right, it was after me. All of this . . . it’s all because of me.”

“Sam, c’mon, that wasn’t Dad, it was the demon. He was just confused by it.”

Sam’s eyes were liquid. “Dean, last week he was the one who put me in that devil’s trap in the first place. I thought the demon had possessed him from the outset, but it hadn’t. It was powerful enough to walk through devil’s traps and ignore the name of God. But Dad was the one who started it all.”

Dean stared, unable to process. “You mean . . .”

Sam’s eyes closed, a tear slipping out from underneath. “He wanted me dead.” Dean had never heard Sam so utterly defeated. “There’s something wrong with me. Ever since birth. There’s nothing we can do to get rid of it. That’s what he said.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t want—“ Sam cut off, probably because he could feel Dean’s irritation at Sam’s desire to make him happy or something ridiculously stupid like that because Sam was a _stupid_ idiot who was _stupid_.

“I thought maybe he was right.” Sam’s whispered words stilled Dean’s fury.

“Sammy,” he said desperately. “No. He wasn’t. Promise me you’ll believe that.”

Sam wouldn’t look at him, so Dean moved to sit on the bed. “We’re still here. Things are screwed up and Dad—“ he almost managed to say it without choking. “—he made mistakes. And it cost him everything. But we’re still here.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you,” Dean assured him. “Even if I wanted to.”

Sam bit his lip. “Okay. Okay.”

Dean took in Sam’s white face and stress lines at the corners of his eyes. “You need to rest, Sam, after that exorcism. We’ll figure it out later, alright? We’re good.”

“Good,” Sam echoed. “Yeah.”

Dean started to stand, but Sam’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm. Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes as Dean waited for an explanation.

“Stay?” Sam finally mumbled. “Please?”

Dean settled back against the headboard, knowing Sam was able to read his agreement and affection straight from his brain. “No drooling,” he warned.

“Mmm.” Sam curled up close, head against Dean’s hip. “No blaming yourself.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but fine,” Dean told him, but Sam was already half asleep.

Nothing was perfect, though at this point, Dean wasn’t about to complain. He had Sam. And in the end, that was all Dean had ever asked for.

“Me too,” Sam mumbled into Dean’s jeans.

Dean smiled, and threaded his fingers in Sam’s hair.

Yeah. They’d be fine.

* * *

**The End**

 


End file.
